


A Simple, Tragic Life: One-shots

by Olos



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Adoption, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, Attempted self harm, Blood and Injury, Communication, Explicit Sexual Content, Flirting, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Generally Yikes, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mild Sexual Content, Mutual Pining, NSFW, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Self-Harm, Sexual Violence, Sickfic, Suicide Attempt, Tags updated with each one-shot, Telepathy, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, description of suicide, emetophobia warning, fluff and comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-06-06 21:15:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 32,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15203621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Olos/pseuds/Olos
Summary: A randomly updated set of one-shots based on my work, "A Simple, Tragic Life", go read that first. They'll be varying POVs and the place on the timeline will vary, I'll put that in chapter notes, noting where the shot is based on chapter names of the original work and if applicable, this series.





	1. Late Night Sprints

**Author's Note:**

> Gandalf POV: Implied rape, panic attacks and angst and hurt/comfort are the applicable tags. Set after Rough Tales and a Better Comfort, and before Loss(.jpeg).

Today was rough. My time in The Tower weighed heavily on me and try I might I could not shake it, and I did not want to tell Aiwendil.  
However, I think, tonight might be better because we’ve finally found some alone time together.  
We embrace and kiss but then he breaks it off to kiss me on the cheek and I can’t help but blush slightly from the affection.  
But clearly he has other plans because he moves his lips down to my jaw, and a bit too close to where I do not want him but he goes and kisses there near my jaw’s hinge and he bites and oh no no thats what Saruman did to mar me and Saruman is here and he mars me again and he’ll do worse now he’ll hurt me hurt me hurt me-  
I shove Saruman-he lands shocked on the bed- and I turn and run run out of the house and away and he’s calling after me “Gandalf, Olórin!” in Aiwendil’s voice but its a ruse if I turn back I’ll be marred again so I run into the night, run run-  
Something catches my foot and I land hard, knocked breathless and I cannot move.  
Footsteps behind me and its him Saruman he’s followed me and he starts to pull me up but I find the strength to pull away and pull myself a few feet because I cannot be hurt again, not again not again-  
Other footsteps, quieter but known and its the hobbits, they cannot be here, I won’t let them, won’t won’t will not-  
“Go, run! Do not come here!” I cry, desperation staining and raising my voice.  
They come anyway and they’re here, standing around me and helping me to my feet.  
But then Saruman steps forward, hand out, and opens his mouth to speak but I will not hear it, I pick up one hobbit and shove the rest behind me and turn my not occupied side to him and snarl, ready for a fight because I will get hurt harmed marred if it means they do not.  
Saruman falls back, surprised at my sudden aggression and does not speak but looks…lost? Hurt? That cannot be, he want to hurt harm mar end-  
A small hand turns my head and it’s my Youngest who I picked up, and he looks at me with big scared concerned eyes and says, “Gandalf, it’s ok, Radagast isn’t bad, he’s trying to help, you’re safe!”  
And I realize my sudden lashing out not only threw off the other Istar but hurt the hobbits, my charges who I must not hurt.  
I’m crying and I can’t remember when I started but the hobbits pull me to sit with them and they hug me and rub my back and someone gives me a handkerchief and I cry and cry and cry, panic fading but distress and exhaustion staying.  
At some point a shadow stoops over me and kneels and kisses me gently, lovingly on my brow and it’s Aiwendil I’m safe and I’ll be alright he’ll save me he’ll drive Saruman off he’s driven Saruman off.  
He’s there but all around me as if I’m drowning in him and its comforting and I need it need it need it and some dark part of me lightens and grasps this new turn of events and I start to feel whole and alright.  
I’m clutching to Aiwendil tight tight tight because I need to cannot let go and I’m gasping and sobbing dryly because I’m so relieved that he’s here and he has me embraced and he’s whispering apologies and I wonder why until I realize, he scared me and that’s why I’m out in this cold forest at night, and I realize Saruman was never here at all.  
I realize I’m shaking from cold and nerves and long grief and he realizes too, so he helps me up but I’m too shaky to walk, my knee gives way and I fall.  
He’s there and he picks me up like the last night I panicked and forgot I was safe, when I could not find Frodo and had to be reminded he was dead, when he got the first proper glimpse into my grief and we first kissed.  
I curl into him and he chuckles and carries on back home, and before I even see home I’m asleep and safe, safe, safe.  
The next morning I wake first and he’s there, curled around me and an arm over me, and even in sleep he’s projecting safety and care and love.


	2. Regret of Late Night Sprints

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf POV: Set two days after Late Night Sprints (within this collection). Sickfic, emetophobia warning and fluff and comfort are the applicable tags.

Two days later, I wake up early, too early. I don’t have much time to register that because I’m hit with a coughing fit.   
My hacking and coughing last quite a long time, indeed Aiwendil stirs and looks at me, concerned.  
“Are you alright?” He asks, moving and sitting me up so I’m not hunched over.  
The fit passes and when I can stop gasping I say “I…believe so? I am fine.”  
“I’ll get you something for it,” he says, worryingly, and sweeps off to fuss with jars and bottles.  
My throat hurts and so does my chest, presumably from the coughing fit I just had. I start coughing again, not as strong as the first but it still pains me, and, I sense, Aiwendil.  
He’s back with a mug of some brew, and he hands me it. I drink it, pull a face from the bitterness and finish it. My throat is not soothed, much to my annoyance, but my chest quells.  
“That brew ought to be had with something to eat; come and sit down at the table and I’ll fetch you something.” Aiwendil says.  
I go to stand and I make it to my feet but my head starts to pound and at the same time feels so light it feels like it’s gonna float away.  
“Ohh, ai ai ai…” I groan, putting a hand to my head.  
“What is it?” He asks.  
“My head…úmára.” I say, almost at a mutter.  
“It must be, if you’re reverting to our mother-tongue halfway through a sentence,” he says gently, coming back and guiding me back to the bed and sitting me down.  
“I…spoke not in Westron?” I try to confirm.  
“You said ‘úmára’ instead of ‘is bad’ or ‘hurts’,” he explains.  
“Oh.” I say, confused but willing to take his word for it.  
“I’ll go get you something to eat, any preference?” Aiwendil asks of me.  
“Fruit, if you can, I don’t feel up for much,” I respond.  
“I think we have some berries, I’ll go get some,” Aiwendil smiles and leaves the room, and for a minute I am left with my slightly less painful head.  
He’s back in a moment though and he’s handing me a bowl of mixed berries.   
I pick one and eat it, savoring the sweetness that comes from a berry not 24 hours off the bush.  
Aiwendil bends down and kisses my brow, but then narrows his brow, and replaces his lips with his hand.  
“You feel a bit too warm,” he comments.  
“Funny,” I reply, “I feel a bit cool. As if to prove my point, I shiver.  
“It looks like you’re getting sick, Olórin,” decrees Aiwendil.  
“I ne-ver would have guessed!” I say, sarcasm dripping from my voice.  
“Oh, don’t give me that,” he chastises, “lie back, after you’ve finished eating, and sleep. I’ll make sure the hobbits are ready.”  
“Thank you,” I say softly, reaching my hand out limply in a rather weak attempt at taking Aiwendil’s.  
He understands and squeezes my hand, and says as parting, “I’ll be back after breakfast with some tea that should help your overheating.”  
I squeeze his hand in turn and he pulls away, and goes and makes breakfast.   
I can hear the merry conversation and the clank of pot and plate and spoon happening in the kitchen when the hobbits arrive and oddly, it makes me feel lonely. I want to join them, and I very nearly do, but Aiwendil sees me sitting up with a determined look on my face and shoots me a stern, ‘Don’t you dare, you lie back down,’ look, so obviously, I do.  
I don’t sleep however, and when Aiwendil walks in, tea in hand, my eyes are open.  
“Hey,” he says softly, handing me the warm mug, “you’re lonely, aren’t you? I saw you getting out of bed.”“Yes, I am,” I confirm, knowing better than to lie, “and I caught your glare and laid right back down, don’t worry.”  
He chuckles warmly and asks, “But other that lonely, how are you?”  
“Well as we both know, I’m sick,” I state, “I have a headache, I feel my head is too light, I’m overheated, I had a cough and my throat is sore.”  
He smiles sadly, and comforts, “I know, this isn’t fun, but I’m right here.” He stoops and kisses me, and I take the opportunity to take his hand.  
“Stay with me a while?” I nearly plead.  
“Of course,” he assures, and I move over a little ways so he can sit on the edge of the bed and pet my hair. I suspect he uses his Power to pull me into sleep, but I can’t prove it because I fall into a light sleep.  
I wake up later, and I don’t feel cool, but a bit warm. I pull the blanket down a little, and I notice that Aiwendil is gone, but I hear him humming in the kitchen.  
I want lunch, or maybe dinner, I cannot tell the time, so I go to rise. It goes well, actually, and I get to the kitchen doorway when Aiwendil looks up.  
He sweeps over and takes my arm, presumably ready to steer me back to bed. “What are you doing out of bed?” He questions.  
“I want lunch, please.” I respond, and take a step towards the table.  
“Oh, alright then,” he says and takes me to a seat before asking, “What do you want?”  
I blush slightly at his fussiness before I say, “Bread and jam, please? I want something more solid than fruit.”  
“Alright, I can do that,” he accepts and within a few minutes there’s two slice of bread and jam sitting in front of me. I kiss his hand in thanks and he takes a seat opposite me.  
“Feeling better?” He asks.“A little,” I answer, “I don’t think I’m too warm anymore.”  
He checks my statement by touching my forehead before concluding, “It’s gone down from this morning.”  
“Why do I have to be sick now, when we’re starting on building fences for the garden?”I lament.  
“You know, it might have something to do with the night when you ran off into the woods. It was cold that night, I wouldn’t be surprised if you caught a chill.”  
I nod in agreement, finding it as good an explanation as any.  
“You know,” begins Aiwendil, taking my hand, “I’ve been meaning to ask you what upset you so? I’m not sure what I did that would illicit such a reaction.”  
I sigh, but I know I ought to explain myself. “I had a rough day, my time in Orthanc was heavy on me,” I explain, “that’s why I was happy to get you alone, so to speak, but because I was already a bit sensitive, when you went and bit gently at me jaw,” I rub where he bit, “you bit unknowingly where Saruman bit, much harder his bite was, I admit, it was as if he were trying to make a dent in my jaw, and look,” I point to the small mark left, “he nearly did. So what I guess happened is that when you moved there, and bit, I felt suddenly that it wasn’t you, that you were replaced with Saruman and he was going to, well, mar me again. I turned tail and fled, and that’s also why I was possessive of the hobbits; if you had actually been Saruman, you would have also tried to assail them, so in my mind I had to protect them. That’s why it took the hobbits intervening and starting to comfort me, because if you had reached out, as I think you did, I would have thought you trying to hurt me.”  
Aiwendil looks sad and guilty, and squeezes my hand. “I’m so sorry, had I known-“  
I cut him off with, “You wouldn’t have bit me, or had you known my mind in full, you might not have pursued me into the forest.” I smile gently, and say, “It’s alright, you did your bit when you carried me home.”  
He smiles, dips his head, and then looks at me curiously. He asks, “But if you thought me Sauman, out to…mar you, why did you suddenly accept my comfort when I kissed your brow?”  
I respond, “It is because I did not see you approach, only felt a shadow or figure move over me, and the act of kissing my brow is not something Saruman would even think of doing. And besides, I just…knew it was you, especially when I held on to you, I felt your, well, Fëa about me, all around. It was quite comforting, made me feel better.”  
“I noticed your Fëa spring out and sort of…wrap around me,” voices Aiwendil, “I don’t think you knew you were doing it, but my Fëa responded in kind, and I made sure it was a comforting presence.”  
I layer my other had on his and give a small blessing in thanks.  
“I felt that,” he chastises gently, “don’t go wasting your energy on me. Eat, you haven’t touched your bread yet.”  
“Yes Aiwendil,” I say quietly, lowering my head and taking a bite of the food.  
I only get a few bites, however, before my stomach begins to complain, and it threatens to reject what was just given to it. Stricken stiff, I hold a hand to my mouth and turn away from the table. I feel a flush beginning in my cheek, anomy stomach lurches.  
“Oh no, are you going to be-“ starts Aiwendil, getting up.  
“-sick, yes,” I get out before I clamp my hand back over my mouth. Some frontrunner from my stomach makes it to my mouth and some small desperate noise escapes me.  
Aiwendil realizes my plight and comes swiftly over with a bowl and he’s only just in time for my stomach to cast up and out what it doesn’t want.  
I splutter from the acrid taste and smell and groan pitifully. Another smaller wave comes and I choke slightly. A small bit splashes out of the bowl and lands on the floor.  
Aiwendil hits my back to dislodge the misguided sick and then rubs it in comfort.  
There’s padding feet and Our Youngest stands at the doorway. “What happened?” He asks, worry obvious in his voice.  
“Gandalf got sick,” explains Radagast, “that is also why he slept in.”  
“Oh,” says the hobbit, “I’m sorry Gandalf.” He walks forwards and hugs me. I pat his back, and assure him I’ll be alright.  
“I know,” asserts the youth, “you’ve faced worse and lived, but I’m sorry you’re going through this anyway.”  
“Thank you,” I reply, but the lad is already walking back outside, presumably back to whatever chore or game he was doing before.  
“Come on, let’s get you back to bed,” coaxes Aiwendil, and I stand, and he wraps an arm about me and supports me back to bed.  
I all but fall into bed and he lies down next to me. “Rest, I’m right here,” he assures, and he pets my hair, and now that the shock has worn off I’m tired tired tired-  
I’m asleep.  
It takes a couple of days for me to throw the illness, but I knew I was going to be fine, after all, Aiwendil was there.


	3. Tales of the Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf POV: Description of suicide and Fluff and hurt/comfort are the applicable tags. Set after Third Beginnings.

After we leave Nienna’s halls, we head East and North to make for Aiwendil’s garden. The trip takes a few days, as we go on foot, but by the grace given to us by our younger, Ainurian forms, we barely notice the time and only rest a few times along the way. We get there though, and once Aiwendil deemed we were in sight of his garden, he takes a strip of cloth from his bag and holds it out.  
“Come here,” He requests, and it’s becoming clear what he wants.  
“Blindfolding?” I raise an eyebrow.  
“It’s a secret!” He waves his hand in the direction of his garden.  
“Alright then,” I consent, stepping forward so he can tie the cloth around my eyes.  
The cloth is soft and easy to wear but it blocks most light, so I find I cannot see much of anything.  
“Well, Aiwendil, guide me well,” I take his hand fumblingly.  
“Of course, I wouldn’t knowingly let you fall,” he reassured me, “I know these lands too well do so anyway.”  
He does lead me well, walking with one hand on my shoulder and the other in my hand. After a half hour or so of slow, careful traveling, he breaks his hold and I hear the quiet opening of a well oiled gate. He’s back and he guides me a few more paces before he unties the cloth and drops it from my eyes.  
“Here we are! Do you like it?” Aiwendil seems rather nervous.  
I take a look around me. Lush, green grass grows in a broad avenue, lined with many bushes, some flowering vibrantly. Down near the end of the avenue there is a broadening of the lawn, and a fountain, gushing merrily, stands at the center. There are second and third lawns starting where the fountain and going to the right and left out of sight. The bushes are flanked on their outside by a red, brick wall that reaches tall enough to hide those within from view but not tall enough to be oppressive. Around me I hear the song of many birds, and a few swoop down in greeting and fly a turn or two about our heads before flying off. One lands on Aiwendil’s outstretched hand and he holds the bird out to me. I stroke it gently, it peeps and goes to poke at my robes, probably looking for food. I laugh, delighted at what I see and hear.  
“Aiwendil, it is wonderful. You have truly put your craft to work.” I lean over and kiss him, and he kisses back, and we just kiss for a while.  
“Let’s go sit down,” he suggests, pulling away and shutting the gate.  
We walk down the lawn and Aiwendil shows us to a bench on the far side of the fountain and we sit.  
“So,” Aiwendil turns to me, face open and gentle, “what was your life like after I died?”  
I swallow, and ask, “Where should I begin?”  
“I guess the moment you realized I was dead?” He shrugs.  
“Well,” I tell, “I was still out in the forest, aways from home. I felt at first a panic, that I recognized to be yours, and then I felt you wounded and-and in pain. Then I felt-I felt-“ I fall silent a moment, because even after Ages this is still hard to talk about.  
“I felt our Fëar torn apart. It hurt terribly. I felt it, being torn from my heart to here,” I indicate where I felt the Fëa ‘leave’, “the pain was so bad I couldn’t regulate my language or my actions for a minute. I was swearing just about every curse word I know, and clutching to my side as if stabbed.”  
Aiwendil looks horrified, and asks, “That’s…awful! But…how do you tell it so calmly? In Middle-Earth something like that would have had you sobbing.”  
“Herinya Nienna helped me with that. It is still something I do not tell easily, but the harsh emotions do not overwhelm me anymore.” I explain.  
Aiwendil nods, accepting my answer.  
“Anyway,” I continue, “I realized that would have you be dead. I told the hobbits, and we got back to home. By the time we’re back the assailants, whoever they were, were gone. We gathered our things and left. Because we didn’t have weapons, I did not persue Samwise. I deemed it too risky.” I pause, regretting illogically that I had done so.  
“So I turned us towards Alatar and Pallando, and after a year of chasing rumor and begging for shelter and food we find him. As soon as he sees me to the bed he gave me I just…collapse. I’m too numb or grief stricken or something to move. I sleep mostly, cry, and eat occasionally when Pallando can coax broth down me. After maybe a week or so, I finally get up, but not because I want to, but because Merry and Pippin are needing me.”  
Aiwendil still looks horrified, but it’s tempered with sympathy now. He takes my hand with both of his, and holds it close to himself.  
“After that, it’s all days running into weeks into years. I’m not bothered to count time. I simply cannot bring myself to care for anything other than the essential needs of my hobbits. One of the only times I smile properly is when they get married.” I know what comes next, and a lump forms in my throat.  
“I don’t find any friends, really. I was too reclusive and offputting, always sad and mournful and seemingly off in thought. I didn’t actually think too hard much. I was just tired, all the time. I could have sleep for days if I wasn’t given chores to help Pallando. After decades of this, the hobbits grow old, and their strength failed. I was there when both of them- when they-“ I start crying, and it feels that it comes out of nowhere. Aiwendil squeezes my hand tight and kisses my brow several times, and I can swallow down my tears for a moment.  
“When they die. They die within a day of each other. After Pippin dies, my heart is done. Dark, hopeless, broken and shattered. I resolve to fade and leave my body. Die.” I feel almost numb; I can keep speaking as if I’m speaking of something else.  
Aiwendil however, when I admitted that I planned to die, starts to weep unashamedly. I pull him close and comfort him as he so often has done for me. Eventually, he stops weeping enough, and he tells me to go on. “Just keep me close,” he whispers, eyes pleading.  
So I do. “Pallando catches me as I leave. He knows he can’t coax me out of it. I think only you, or our hobbits could, but neither of you were there. He hugs me, probably for his own comfort, and so I wander into the nearby woods. I find a clearing, and lie down to die. And I do. It… felt like a relief.”  
Aiwendil now is sobbing, and turns his face into my robe as a child would. I embrace him and rock slowly back and forth and kiss his hair, and slowly he quiets.  
“I-I cannot believe my death would hurt you so. I’m so sorry! Drive you from your home and-and-crush you, wound you!” He laments. ”Oh, sweetheart…”  
“It’s alright, you couldn’t help it. It is not your fault. I was so affected because I made the decision to bottle up my grief and not tell anyone until I got to Herinya Nienna.”  
He sniffles. “I guess that’s a big factor. I just…can’t believe I have such an affect on another person…” he trails off thinking.  
“Especially then you did. You basically saved me, became my rock if you will. I probably would have faded long before I did if you weren’t there. So I must thank you for looking after me. I realize now I was not very stable at all.”  
“Of course! You know I love you, and even before I realized I did I still was happy to help,” he chuckles wetly, and kisses my cheek.  
I kiss his cheek back, and rest my forehead on the top of his head.  
“Anything happen after that?” He asks.  
“Nothing very eventful. I just wandered, a ghost, around Arda for a while. I eventually came back to Valinor, sought healing with Herinya Nienna, and, well, you know the rest,” I finish. “What happened with you?”  
“Well, after I died-it was orcs, they killed both Samwise and I, try I might- I was up in the Timeless Halls for awhile, which is probably why our Fëar split. I came back down though, and went to Lady Nienna. I didn’t spend too long there, and quickly I was out on missions for Herinya Yavanna. In my spare time I made and cared for this garden, ever in the hope that you would come back. Eventually, I caught rumor that you were in Lady Nienna’s halls, and so I go down there immediately. They rebuff me, telling me that you weren’t having visitors, but they can tell I need to be at least told news of you, so they promise to send news up every so often. After many years, not a week ago, a messenger comes with the news that you can have visitors, so of course I come about as quick as I can. They greet me and show me to the bench I was sitting on when you were shown to me, and the rest you know.” He tells.  
“Oh, sweetheart!” I whisper, awestruck, “You…made this garden in the hope I would see it? For…me?” I kiss him, but he merely chuckles and pulls away.  
“Well, partially. Lady Nienna thought it would be good for me to have a project or a…task to keep me busy and give me a purpose. And at first, when I was building and planting and waiting, it was just a keep-me-busy project, but once it came down to routine maintenance work-watering, some weeding, trimming, making sure the walls stay up- I realized I needed a reason to keep it running, so I made you the reason.” he explains.  
“Oh…sweetheart, I’m honored!” Tears spring to my eyes at the thought of Aiwendil making a garden and keeping it for me, at the thought of holding that much meaning for a person.  
“Oh, honey, you’re crying!” Aiwendil exclaims, wrapping me quickly to him.  
I curl into him willingly, and sniff, “I’m just…happy,” the lump in my throat too strong for any lengthy explanation to pass.   
“I know, I know,” he soothes, “and you know something?” I hum curiously, “That makes it all worth my while.” He smiles gently.  
I grab his collar, and pull him into a kiss, as I did so many years ago. But now, there is no pain or guilt, only love, love, love.


	4. Finding Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf POV: Adoption is the appropriate tag here. Set after Third Beginnings and Tales of the Past (this collection).

We settle in Aiwendil’s cottage at the far end of his gardens. We still live a fairly Edain type life- we eat, sleep, drink- slowed down, of course, but following a similar schedule to what we had in Middle-Earth: wake up, eat, tend the garden and house or go on a day mission, report to our Valar if need be, come home, eat, time alone if we want, sleep. For some time we live happily, spending plenty of time alone together, and simply living together between missions. Eventually, I realize the house feels like it’s missing something. It feels empty in our quiet evenings, and especially if Aiwendil is off on a mission that takes him from me, but I am at home. So I raise the matter at dinner one night.  
“Aiwendil,” I begin, “I’ve been feeling that the house is too…quiet.”  
He looks at me over his fork. “Do you have any ideas to rectify that?”  
I think for a moment, before wondering, “Children?”  
He looks mildly shocked. “Olórin, you know we cannot have children, not by ourselves at least.”  
“I know that, I was thinking of…adoption?”  
“This isn’t exactly a place where there are many orphans; the orphans made in the First Age’s final conflict are well grown up, and goodness knows neither of us probably want to take a child from Middle-Earth,” contended Aiwendil.  
“I know that, I guess…I just miss having someone that I’m…the guardian and caretaker for, don’t you? Like Sam and Merry and Pippin…”  
“Well, I do, but it’s just not realistic to find an orphan in Valinor, sweetheart.”  
“You’re right, but…let’s keep our eyes open?” I suggest, almost timidly.  
“Of course! I do want children, but we just can’t get any around here. That’s the problem with a land of bliss. Childless, unable to physically conceive couples tend to stay childless.” He smiles sadly, and the rest of the evening is muted, sadly.  
A long time passes, and I almost get used to a quiet house when suddenly, a message is passed down from the Valar.  
“All couples unable to conceive a child, if you are still wanting of one, there was recently a very young child spurned by his father after said father blamed the child for the loss of his mother. We need someone to take him in. There will be a meeting to get candidates for parenthood in two weeks.” Announces the poster hanging on our gates.  
“Aiwendil, Aiwendil!” I shout, feeling suddenly hopeful.  
“What is it, honey?” He sounds concerned, and holds pruning shears.  
“Look!” I say, pointing out the poster.  
He reads the poster and turns to me with a smile.  
“Well, Olórin, it looks like our wish for children has finally been heard.”  
I smile in response, and say, “Well the child isn’t ours yet, but we have a shot at him.”  
The two weeks pass quickly with our added responsibility of preparing for a child and before we know it we’re packing and going to the meeting.   
There aren’t that many other couples there, and as far as I can tell they’re all here for the reason we are: their bodies make it impossible to either of the couple to conceive or carry a child.  
Herunya Manwë sweeps into the room. He says, “Hello everyone, thank you for coming. As you all know we have an orphan to house. For the past three weeks he has been in the care of Lady Nienna, however, he wants to find a proper family. Lady Nienna, will you bring him forth?”  
Herinya Nienna ushers forth a small,-honestly, he’s probably not 2 years old-dark haired boy. He waves shyly and then tucks himself behind Herinya Nienna’s skirts. I giggle softly, and whisper to Aiwendil, “Oh, he’s adorable!” Aiwendil squeezes my hand and I can tell he agrees.  
“Now, in the interest of giving our little one here-Almaron is his name-free choice we ask that each couple explain why they are able to care for a child and why they wish a child.”  
Aiwendil and I glance at each other; we were not aware of this!  
“Honey, I’ll go up,” I offer, “I have the added credentials of being of both Herunya Manwë and Herinya Nienna.”  
He nods, accepting my idea. I also know he’s not too fond of public speaking, so although I left it unspoken, that was my main reason.  
“Who wishes to speak first?” Asks Herunya Manwë.  
“I will, Herunya, if you do not mind,” I offer, half rising.  
Herunya smiles softly, and nods, saying “Come forth then, Olórin.”  
I smile and stride to the centre of the room. I take a moment to gather my thoughts.  
“Hello and good day to Herunya Manwë, Herinya Nienna, and to the rest of the couples with Aiwendil and I today,” I began. “And one very special hello to Almaron.” I give the boy a wave and smile. He smiles, timid still. “I will start out my claim by saying that I have indeed raised, or helped to raise several children in my lifetime, the majority of which were with Aiwendil. However, all those children have long since grown and left us, and we feel lonely, that our house is empty and too quiet. We would love a child to raise, especially one so adorable as Almaron.” I glance over to the lad and shoot a small grin to him. He giggles, and I feel proud for a moment. “I will close by telling that I am a Maia of both Herunya Manwë and Herinya Nienna, so, dear boy, if you doubt me, ask them who I am. Finally, I will say that my husband and I make a good skill team; I being a Maia of Herinyar Varda and Nienna and Herunya Manwë, and he being a Maia of Lady Yavanna, we have a broad range of skills and lessons we can teach Almaron. Thank you for your attention.” I sit down.  
The other couples give their speeches on how they are a good candidate, and once that is over, Almaron is allowed to ask questions of his potential parents.  
He goes and asks every couple at least one question, but I sense he doesn’t have any favorite yet.  
He gets to Aiwendil and I last, and he approaches us with wide eyes.  
“Is it true you are…Maiar?” He asks softly.  
I kneel down in front of the lad, and say, “Yes, my husband and I are not elves, but Maiar.” I note now that the child has the most vibrant blue eyes I’ve ever seen.  
“Can you show me?” He tilts his head.  
“Do you mean…a show of Power?” I confirm.  
“Yes!” He nods excitedly.  
“Well,” I explain, “I won’t show you my full strength, but I’ll show you some tricks.”I lift his dark hair in an unfelt breeze, and I turn to Aiwendil, and he plants a small flower behind Almaron’s ear. I let his hair fall.  
“Almaron, feel your ear,” smiles Aiwendil, and Almaron gasps when he pulls the flower from his hair.  
“I-thats-thank you,” Almaron stutters, and he hugs me briefly, before he darts over to Aiwnedil and hugs him too.  
“You’re welcome,” I ruffle the boy’s hair.  
“I like you two.” Says the lad, certain in himself. “I’ll choose you.”  
“Hey now,” I chide gently, “don’t choose us just because we can do tricks.”  
“I know that! But you’re of Lady Varda,” he says pointing to me, “and you’re of Lady Yavanna,” he points to Aiwendil, “and I like the stars and flowers so why shouldn’t I choose you?”   
“You make a good point,” Aiwendil states sagely.  
Almaron takes my wrist in his small hand and turns to Herunya Manwë.  
“I’ve chosen them, Lord,” he announces.  
“If it be your will,” accepts Herunya Manwë.  
Almaron lets go of me and I see him running to Herinya Nienna. He hugs her in farewell, and in another moment he’s back to me and tugging on my arm. When I look down to ask what he wants, he raises both arms up and towards me. That sign I know well from my weeks at Bag-End helping Bilbo with a young Frodo, so I hoist the young elf onto my hip, where he clings to me.  
“This meeting is over,” declares Herunya Manwë, and oblivious to the world around us, Aiwendil, Almaron and I leave for home.


	5. Ball Games Gone Wrong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf POV: Blood and Injury are is the applicable tag. Set after Finding Family (this collection).

Almaron was shy at first, but he eventually warmed up and now he proves himself to be an affectionate, clever elfling. The first few weeks he stays to the house and grounds mainly, but eventually we introduce him to an elven village nearby and he befriends the kids there. He shows a love of ball centered sports, and plays them frequently, very driven to win.  
I watch one of their matches, and see Almaron running for the ball, however, another child, a blond, willowy girl, has possession of it. He makes an effort to get it back, and I’m chucking as I turn away to grab a snack from my bad. This momentary distraction, however, is interrupted loudly by a sudden scream-Almaron!  
I whirl around, food abandoned, to see Almaron several feet from where I saw him last, clutching at a clearly broken, arm, and I can tell something, maybe a stone hidden in the grass, has cut the same arm.  
I spring forward to Almaron, and like distressed children do he clutches to me. Careful not to jostle his bad arm, I pick him up and try to reassure the lad, but that’s hard because I’m also now on the verge of panic because my child is wounded how did this happen where did I go wrong, where-  
A figure is now sprinting for me and I very nearly snarl at them, tell them to _back off from my son _before I realize, it’s Aiwendil.  
“Hey, no snarling,” he chastises me, seeing my pulled lips and angry brows.  
“Sorry, old habit,” I say shortly.  
“What happened?” Aiwendil looks pretty worried.  
“MY ARM!” Wails Almaron, and I cringe a moment because how can such a small child yell so loud?  
“I do not know, but somehow he ended up cutting and breaking his arm,” I readjust the boy in my arms.  
“Come on, let’s get him to Lady Estë. She’s not too far from here.” Aiwendil nods in the direction of her dwellings.  
We go as fast as we may, and in good time arrive at Lady Estë’s dwelling. A Maia of hers admits us in and sees to Almaron.  
Almaron has calmed from his initial panic on the playing field, but when the healer goes to examine his arm, he flails and puts up a fight and we have to restrain him.  
“Yes, a break-not a clean break either- and a cut at the elbow is what he suffers,” announces the healer. “Because he has multiple wounds on his arm, and the break isn’t clean, the healing process is delicate. Neither of you are of Estë, are you?”  
“No,” I shake my head.  
“Alright, then I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave, so you do not make any fuss and prolong the process-however well intentioned it may be,” commanded the healer.  
Aiwendil and I put up a fight, we will not be parted from our son, not if we can help it, but we’re shown the door and told to come back in two days. With nothing else to do, we wander home, neither of us speaking.__


	6. A Threat Renewed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf POV: Panic attacks, threats of rape/non-con, blood and injury and angst are the applicable tags. Set after Ball Games Gone Wrong (this collection).

That evening, Aiwendil are sitting after dinner with tea in hand. We’re largely quiet, just spending time with each other.  
After a few minutes of silence, however, Aiwendil turns to me, and asks, “So you told me you wandered Arda as a phantom, what was that like?”  
“I first went for where we lived in Middle-Earth, and because it was made of wood, it was largely rotted and collapsed,” I tell, “Then I returned to Pallando’s village and watched over it; subtly directing a better fate for them. But that got boring and felt useless, and besides it was painful to stay in a place where I was unhappy. So I started to just wander with no purpose. I turn to the Shire; I find it near de-destroyed.” My voice quivers and stops as a lump forms in my throat.  
“I figured that our hobbits were the-the, last-“ The lump grows and my eyes prick painfully. I rub my eyes and my hands come back wet.  
“Shh, shh, it’s alright,” soothes Aiwendil, “I know what you mean, and I grieve too.”  
A chill presence enters the room, and I shiver and curl into my husband by impulse. Aiwendil stiffens for a moment, but when I curl into him I feel him relax.  
The room brightens infinitesimally with a cold light, but I brush it off, thinking nothing of it.  
A sudden thought or memory hits me, and I admit, “You know, I even wondered what happened to Saruman. He-“  
“What about me?” Asks a cold, malicious, _dreadfully familiar _voice.__  
I let out a gasp-scream and fall into Aiwendil’s lap. His arms are there, around me and holding me, as if his embrace could ward Saruman off.  
I see the intruding Maia now; he’s clearly materializing from ghost unseen to his Valinorian form, a brown haired, tall figure, square-ish of face, but his brown eyes, once clever and wise, are broken and shine feyly with malice. His body, normally similar although taller than Aiwendil’s, is gaunt and deathly pale, as if he were a living corpse.  
Without a word, he springs forward, grabs me by the neck and arm, tears me from Aiwendil harshly, and flings me into a wall, as if I were half my size.  
I groan on impact and curl into a ball, shielding my head. My breathing is harsh and shallow and I feel panic take hold, and not in any useful way, it freezes me and my Power and I can’t run or hide or fight I just lie there and panic panic panic-  
Saruman is there and he picks me up by my collar and starts hissing loudly how he’ll hurt me how he should have never let me or my hobbits leave how he should have _marred us _forever, how he’ll mar me again and force Aiwendil to watch and maybe even mar him to, it would be a treat! and I don’t breathe at all and I’m crying against my will and I’m terrified terrified terrified-__  
I swat at him but it only encourages him, fans his broken madness and he leans in and I feel his hot breath on me and he bites where he once did and it stings hurts hurts hurts he’s going to kill me slowly and he’ll destroy me, I feel him move, down towards my throat, he’ll bite me and bleed me out as he marks and mars me-  
But he’s gone but the room is too loud, Aiwendil is fighting him, yelling loudly to make up for the fact that I know he’s no fighter. I’m paralyzed and can’t help I just lie there terrified and cry cry cry-  
There’s a crash, terrible and loud and Aiwendil _screams _and in an instant my terror is rage, blinding hot rage because I will not let him die, will not let him be marred, I will die and be marred 10 times over before I let that happen-__  
I spring up and Saruman has _my _husband pinned to a wall so I jump at Saruman and savagely throw him to the ground and start beating him, hands flying, and Saruman goes from hubristic, powerful, fey malice to afraid and he curls away but I do not stop, and I do not until Saruman is suddenly gone, turned back into an unseen spirit and left, leaving the room warmer and darker, do I stop.__  
I look slowly at my hands, and they are bloodstained, turned red from some wound I made and I’m once again afraid awfully because I spilled blood in Aman I have marred this land my home I’ve ruined it, ruined ruined ruined-  
I do not notice I’ve fallen to the wall until Aiwendil is hovering over me, eyes glazed slightly and a bleeding wound in the middle of his forehead.  
He cups my chin tenderly but his hands shake and I launch into an embrace and we just sit there, quivering.  
But soon my guilt eats away at me and I must confess I must must must-  
“I spilled blood spilled blood in Aman I’m awful I ruined Aman they ought to kick me out they will kick me out to have no home or love and to perish alone let me perish-“  
Aiwendil is there, holding me tighter as if that will hold my doom at bay.  
“No, no, it’s not your fault!” He exclaims. “You did not start the fight, you fought off an assailant to protect another-your husband!-The Valar know better than to charge a man with defending his husband.”  
“But-but-“ I stutter out because I must be guilty, but Aiwendil kisses me before I can say anything more.  
“None of that. They won’t find you guilty, and if they do? I’ll leave with you.”  
My heart quails at that thought and I wail, “Do not join me in my exile! Stay here, you’ll be safe, stay here for our son!”  
He realizes what he said did not help his argument. “Oh sweetheart, I am sorry. They won’t take you. You’ll stay right here, I promise.”  
And I realize I do want to stay but that I ought to leave. But Aiwendil sways slightly where he crouches and I put my doom aside for a moment.  
“Are you alright? You have a wound on your head and you look dazed.” I ask of him and indeed his forehead’s wound has bled its way down his face and his eyes are way too glazed for my liking.  
“I-Saruman he…hit me…threw me against this wall…my head hurts, Olórin.” His speech is slowing unsteady all of a sudden, eyes dim and almost childlike and he holds a hand to his head.  
He continues in a confused plea, “Make it stop, make it…” he trails off as his eyes roll back and he collapses.  
I gasp and jump up, and by the grace lent to me by my Ainurian form and perhaps fate, I pick up my husband and sprint off for Lady Estë’s, worry eating at me all the run there.  
I get there, and, desperation clouding my mind, I do not set Aiwendil down but instead kick at the door. I must have nearly broken it when a Maia opens the door.  
It’s the same one that met us with Almaron, and she starts to say, “Your son won’t be ready-“ before she sees my desperate face and unconscious husband and realize why I’m here.  
“Please,” I beg, “Please help him, I can’t lose him, I can’t! PLEASE!” My last plea was made a bellow by desperation, and tears start to my eyes.  
She hustles me inside and have me lay Aiwendil in a bed. She starts fussing over him and don’t pay much heed to me. I watch her, trying to read her face because I must must must know if Aiwendil will be alright.  
The healer straightens up and says, “Head injury and several bruises and cuts. Has he been in a fight?” She looks at me and points at my jaw. “Goodness, you’re bleeding too-it looks like you were bit by a person-what on earth?”  
Too tired and worried to care much about my own doom, I tell the whole story of what happened tonight. The healer is shocked, clearly, and stops mid way through bandaging Aiwendil’s head to stare.  
“You ought to report that to someone-Lord Manwë perhaps? You’re of him, right?” She guesses, looking at my robes for the clue of who I’m of.  
“Yes, I’m of Herunya Manwë,” I confirm.  
“Well you can tell him when I’ve seen to you, and possibly after you have a quick stay with Lady Nienna.” She continues to bandage my husband.  
She finishes with him, and he’s still unconscious and I don’t like it.  
“Will…he be alright?” I ask.  
“Yes, but you need to give him time,” the healer comes for me now, and starts bandaging my jaw.  
“Anywhere else hurt?” She’s done with my jaw.  
“My back hurts…” I say quietly.  
She examines my back and concludes it’s bruise but it’s not major. She gives me a salve for the pain and tells me I’d better go for Lady Nienna, I’m not just physically banged up.  
I mightily object. “I need to stay with him! I will not go!” I yell, emotions rolling over any self control I have. But the healer won’t let me stay and I’m about to seal myself to the floor near Aiwendil’s bed when I’m snuck up behind by someone and I’m knocked out without blow.


	7. Time to Heal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf POV: Angst and Hurt/Comfort is the applicable tag. Set after A Threat Renewed (this collection).

I wake up on a horse. Someone is carrying me on horseback. I sit up and look around, too groggy to put up a fight.  
“Where am I going?” I ask to my bearer.  
“You’re going to Lady Nienna’s,” replies a terse, masculine voice. “Why on earth did you kick up such a fuss?”  
I realize now my fight to stay with Aiwendil was quite shameful. “I-I-no good reason, I’m sorry,” I say, apologetically.  
“Emotions take over?” I sense they peer at me in the dark.  
“…Yes.”  
“Figured. I’m a devotee of Herinyar Nienna and Estë, so I had to make a guess.”  
“You’re an elf?” I ask.  
“Yes.”  
Conversation dies out, but evidently I was out for a while because we get to Herinya Nienna’s pretty quick. I’m admitted quietly. Herinya Nienna looks sad to see me.  
“Olórin, why are you back so soon?” She asks.  
“The healer at Lady Estë’s thought I should come.” I explain.  
“What was their reason for why?”  
For the second time in as many hours I tell what happened at my house, and it’s harder now that the blank shock has worn away. I’m crying by the time I’m done.  
I am comforted and then sent to my old quarters, where I fall asleep immediately.  
I am given breakfast and then assigned light tasks around Herinya Nienna’s dwelling. It helps to keep my busy, but my mind turns to my new son. I wonder how he’s getting on-he’ll be going home tomorrow-oh no.  
“Herinya Nienna?” I ask out.  
“Yes, Olórin?” Comes the drifting response.  
“Any chance I’ll be getting out soon? I just realized Almaron-he was injured soon before the whole Curumo incident-will be getting out from healer’s soon and with Aiwendil in the healers too and I here there’s nowhere for him to go.”  
“If you are not home by then he can come here with you, and besides, I should think thy husband will join us after what happened.”  
“Alright, Herinya,” I take the matter as solved and go on with sweeping.  
I am not out within the two days I am hoping. While I am far better in mood than my first admission, I’m still deemed too nervous and delicate to leave.  
At day three there, I notice as I retire for the evening that my bed is bigger, and that there is a smaller bed lying in another corner.  
But I’m too tired to care-I had a nervous fit earlier when a draft from an open door convinced me that Saruman had come to these halls like he did to my home.  
I take off my day clothes and change into my night robe when there’s a knock at the door. I double check that I’m decent before calling, “Come in.”  
It’s Aiwendil and Almaron. Almaron looks fully healed but Aiwendil looks dead tired and still has a bandage on his head.  
My husband steps forward, a small smile in his lips but it doesn’t reflect in his eyes. He holds his arms out and I meet him and pull him into an embrace.  
I make some distance between us and take a good look at him.  
“Are you alright? You don’t look too well,” I ask gently.  
“I-just hold me,” Aiwendil’s voice is listless.  
So I do, hugging him again and stroking his hair, and I feel Almaron hug him too, and we just stand there, a tired family.  
Aiwendil lowers his head to my shoulder and soon my shoulder is damp. He’s shaking and I can tell there’s bottled up grief in there.   
I slowly sway, on purpose, side to side to side, whispering reassurances. He stops shaking but my shoulder is seeping dampness down my front so I must do something.  
Struck by inspiration, I try to consciously move my Fëa to wrap around his. But his doesn’t respond-it’s numb and a little sad and _exhausted. _  
“Come on, to bed,” I coax gently, stepping away but keeping Aiwendil’s hand.  
“I don’t have nightclothes,” he mutters.  
“Here, I’ll loan you my spare. We’ll get you some in the morning,” I move off to the closet and take out my spare night robe.  
“Almaron,” I call quietly over my shoulder, “Go get yourself ready for sleep. Go wash your face and hands, and mind you do it well.”  
A soft, “Yes, atya,” and soft footsteps going off to the bathroom.  
I turn to find Aiwendil drooping slightly, as if he were about to sleep where he stood. Even his hair seems to be a less vibrant orange.  
“Let’s get you changed,” I murmur, stepping forward and helping Aiwendil out of clothes and boots and slipping him into the robe.  
He sags into me, and I feel sleep pulling at him incessantly. I wrap an arm around and guide him to the bed, and he falls without grace into it. I get in, pull the blankets up and around us, and curl around him, being sure to project care and quiet and love.__


	8. A Day In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf POV: Angst and H/C and NSFW are the applicable tags. Set after Time To Heal (this collection).

When I wake, I find that Aiwendil rolled over in the night, and that we lie, foreheads touching, and both my hands are held loosely by him. We are not closely snuggled, I realize, finding that the form against my chest is not Aiwendil but Almaron, the boy having snuck in with us at some point in the night.  
I squeeze the hands laced in mine, and Aiwendil’s eyes blink open. They’re dull with sleep but they’re not numb as they were last night; indeed they sparkle with a sleepy happiness and something else a bit more potent.  
“Hey,” he murmurs.  
“Good morning,” I respond, smiling softly.  
He inches closer to my ear, careful of Almaron, and says in a barely-there whisper, “If you do not mind, I need some…alone time with you.” A smile that borders on a smirk traces its way up his cheeks, and I feel a blush trace a similar path.  
“Bold! But…we’re not alone.” I reply, in a shocked whisper. “However much I may…want us to be.” I start smirking too.  
“I have an idea.” Aiwendil turns and gently wakes our son.  
“Hmmf?” Comes the drowsy reply.  
“Almaron, how about helping Lady Nienna make breakfast?” Proposes Aiwendil.  
“‘M comfortable ‘ere,” the slurred response says.  
“You do know they let the chefs have first call on the food? That means you get the best eggs,” I add, playing on my son’s love for eggs because I realize that I also need alone time.  
Almaron wakes considerably at this offer.  
“Come on, I’ll show you down,” Aiwendil gets up, they get dressed, and Almaron follows him out of the room, leaving me alone for a few minutes. I spend the entire time feeling lonely, and hoping very much and Aiwendil will hurry and and get back here.  
After about two minutes I stand up, although I don’t mean to leave, so I just stand there. I start leafing through a book I find on the table near my waist. Nothing interesting, it seemed to be for those of Aulë, and those concerned with metal working at that.  
When I shut the book, Aiwendil comes in. I’ve only taken one step to him when he’s already there, pulling me tight and kissing me so fiercely it is made quite clear to me just how much he needs this.  
Naturally, I respond in kind, but eventually we need to take a proper breath or two. We stop, almost simultaneously, and gasp for a moment before I get out, “Goodness, you’re…enthusiastic.”  
“I said I needed to be alone with you,” he reminds me, and he does look a little needy, and I really ought to be merciful, especially to my husband, so I lean in and seize him, giving exactly what I got.  
The better part of the morning is passed together and afterward we lie abed, and I’m drifting into a needed nap when Aiwendil speaks.  
“Can I…get something off my chest?”  
I make some incoherent noise before rolling over and asking, “What is it? I need a nap after what you did to me.”  
He looks guilty, but says, “So do I, but…I’m afraid that this feels urgent. I don’t want to push this away and then blow with the stress of keeping it down later, especially if Almaron is around.” He looks at me earnestly and takes one of my hands.  
“No, it’s alright sweetheart,” I reassure. Seldom does this happen, and I can tell this is needed now. “Go ahead.”  
“I’m worried about you.”  
“Why’s that? You can see I’m perfectly fit-physically at least,” I reason.  
“Oh, I can tell that-but that’s not my concern,” his eyes are worried and open. “Are you alright…at heart?”  
“As in, my mood, my thought are aright?”  
“Yes, that’s my question.”  
“They are aright now-naturally, not so well when the…debacle of a few nights ago happened, but I’m largely alright now.” I explain, doing my best to remain soothing. “Why?”  
“It probably seems foolish, but-but I had to ask, because when I woke up in healer’s you weren’t there, and I was confused and I didn’t know where I was or anyone there, and so when the nurse tells me I’m at Lady Estë’s I ask how did I end up here, I was at home last I remember. He says back that you brought me here, and after you were treated for some minor ailments you were taken to Lady Nienna’s. It seemed pretty clear on the nurse’s face that you were taken there by force, and that made me so worried.” He starts to tear up, and he pauses. I pull him closer to me, and he starts again, worry making his voice shaky.  
“I-I remembered your words, at home, just after the…you know, you said let-‘let me perish’ and I remembered that soon after I spoke with the nurse, and I thought you had-had tried-“ his voice falters, breaks, and he starts crying in earnest.  
“No, no, no, I did no such thing,” I say quickly, pressing my distraught husband to me and evening my breath. “Hey, look at me,” I take his chin and lift it up, making sure he saw that I was not distressed, “do I look like I tried such a thing recently?”  
“Well-no, but I just _had _to be sure, and-“ he’s rambling, curling away from me and into himself, embarrassment and stress and bottled grief pouring off of him, and I need to calm him right now.__  
“Hey, hey, just breathe,” I coax, and wait a minute until I’m satisfied with his breathing. He looks at me with wide green eyes that beg an answer.  
“If you want to know, I was indeed stressed that night, it was only natural, and they sensed it. But I think the catalyst for taking me here was the rather embarrassing fit I threw trying to sit a vigil over you.” I explain, pressing a kiss to his forehead before setting my forehead to his.  
“My distress hit a peak when they said I ought to come here, I refused, I needed to stay with you, but they knocked me out and sent me down here.”  
His eyes get even wider. “You threw such a fuss that you had to be knocked out?!”  
It’s my turn for embarrassment. “Yes, I did. I just had to stay with you, see you awake, be there, but they thought differently, and now I think they were right. I might have wasted from worry or genuinely fought someone.”  
“I-you would have…faded?” he whispers.  
“I did not say would, but if you had not awoken quickly, or been worse in health than you were, I might have. I must admit it was something that could have been.”  
He suddenly clings tightly to me, nearly squeezing the breath out of me. “Then I am so glad you were taken here!” is muffled by my shoulder.  
Aiwendil peers up at me, head removed from my collarbone. “Then what did ‘let me perish’ mean?”  
I let out a breath and think for a moment, rationalizing what I did mean. “It was said in guilt-you saw me, I was terrified that because I broke Saruman’s nose or something and got his blood on my hand that I would be thrown out of Aman, and I really felt bad for the deed, for I thought that it is a capital crime to fight someone in Aman, that I ought to die for it. Of course,” I hurry on, seeing mounting horror on Aiwendil’s face, “that guilt has largely been assuaged, and while I do fear some punishment- illogically- for what was done, I know in my entirety that I shan’t be kicked out of Aman, and neither do I deserve to die for breaking a man’s nose in defense of my husband.”  
Aiwendil laughs lightly and relaxes his hold slightly, and I can tell he’s relieved. “I’ll say it again: You won’t be punished for this.”  
I kiss him, and say, “I know, but I still fear it nonetheless.”  
We fall silent after that, snuggled up, and I’m just about to drift off when there’s a knock at the door.  
“I’ll get it,” I murmur to my husband, before I call, “One moment please!”  
I get out of bed, throw on the nearest robe, check that I’m decent, and open the door. An elf stands there.  
“You’ve been missing all day-both breakfast and lunch, are you alright?” They enquire.  
“Yes, yes we’re alright. We got…caught up in each other.” I say, not looking the messenger in the eye.  
“Yes, I can tell. I’ve seen you about the place, and that is not your robe, is it?” Replies the messenger, and when I take a look at the robe I wear, I realize it designates me as of Lady Yavanna, which is not correct.  
“Ah,” I tug on the robe awkwardly.  
“Anyway, a meeting has been set up between you, Aiwendil and Ëonwë, to talk over what happened, if you feel up to it.”  
“I feel that I can-sweetheart?” I call over. “Did you catch that?”  
“Yes,” comes the sleepy reply.  
“Do you think you’re up to it?”  
“I’ll be alright.” The sound of someone rolling over in bed.  
“It’s just after dinner, so if you need a catnap before getting ready you have that time.” With that, they leave.  
I slip back into bed, and I am immediately pulled tight into Aiwendil. He sets his head to the back of my neck.  
“Feeling possessive?” I ask absently. I rather do like this.  
“Mm hmm. Mine.” He starts kissing my neck and I like this a bit too much to fall asleep. I shiver.  
“Dear, I thought we arranged to take a nap.” I remind him.  
“And we are,” he continues shamelessly.  
“I can’t sleep, not with you doing this,” I squirm a bit.  
He doesn’t respond but I feel teeth nip at my neck. I hiss and arch into him, because this feels _nice _but the sting reminds me of something else.__  
“Don’t tell me that left a visible mark,” I groan.  
“Why, self conscious?” Aiwendil pauses.  
“Yes,” I say, letting a hint of steel into my voice, “with good reason.” I bring his hand up to the healing bite on my jaw.  
“ _Oh, _” his voice is guilty and not so possessive, “I’m sorry.” He kisses the mark apologetically, and I feel a blessing in it, probably to keep a mark from forming.__  
“’S alright,” I say. I roll over and wrangle Aiwendil into a hug so he can’t keep up his mischief. “Now, sleep.”  
“But-“  
“Sleep.”  
So we do.


	9. Tie the Loose Ends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf POV: Set after A Day in (this collection), with no discernible tags applicable.

I make sure to wake after an hour or so. I shake Aiwendil awake-there’s not much time before dinner, and I’m hungry.  
“It’s time to get ready,” I cajole.  
“Mmmmph. I’m up, I’m up,” he says groggily. He stumbles out of bed and grabs my robe. I realize I never took off his, and still his wrist.  
“That’s my robe. Here,” I take off his, “this is yours.”  
“Oh.”  
We get dressed, and before I do my hair I ask, “Any mark?”  
Aiwendil checks, and says, “No, there’s not.” I feel him rest his head against me, and I sense he’s feeling guilty about the whole affair.  
“It’s alright, Aiwendil,” I reassure, pulling his arms about me for a moment before dropping them and seeking my brush.  
We finish getting ready, but before we leave, I turn and ask, “Last night, you were…out of it. Your Fëa didn’t even respond to mine. What happened?”  
“Well, I was fairly nervous and on edge on account of what we talked about earlier, so to make sure I didn’t panic on the way here, especially if something happened, they gave me a sort of calming potion. It was really more of a trance potion, because while it did keep me calm, I barely felt anything at all. I just felt numb and tired. I did feel your Fëa- but I just didn’t feel like doing anything, and I almost couldn’t. I’m glad that you had me rest,” he answers.  
“Of course,” I kiss him, “perhaps you had an adverse reaction? Be careful about having that brew again.”  
“I will.”  
“Come on, it’s nearly dinner,” I tell him, and we turn and leave.  
We find Almaron and he animatedly tells us about his day. He seems to be put in the gardens, working to keep the plants alive and trimmed. He’s made friends of the few younger residents, and he’s been working hard-indeed, his hands have dirt under the nails and his hair is most definitely not clean. I figure I’ll bathe him after the meeting.  
Dinner finishes up and the messenger from before finds us just as we’re leaving.  
“There you are, I need to guide you to the meeting-are you going to bring the kid?” They ask.  
“No, I don’t think so, could he go anywhere?” I ask in turn.  
“He should go back to the garden-some people are planting now that the day’s heat has passed.” They bend down to Almaron. “Do you know your way to the garden?”  
Almaron nods happily.  
“Off you go then. We’ll pick you up in a while.” Aiwendil says, and Almaron skips off.  
We’re guided to a small room, where there sits just a table. On the far side of the table, Ëonwë sits, and in a far corner, a guide, or more probably a guard, stands.  
“Please, sit,” Ëonwë bids. I give a slight bow, more of a deep nod, to him before sitting in the chairs provided us.  
“Thank you for meeting us here,” I say politely.  
“It’s no issue,” he replies. “So, I hear you two had trouble with an invading Maia?”  
“Yes, Curumo,” I answer.  
“Curumo? Isn’t he an Istar- like you two were?”  
“Ah, well he’s a traitor,” explains Aiwendil.  
“Is he? That’s news to me,” says Ëonwë.  
I tilt my healing bite to him and say, “He dealt me this wound in Middle-Earth, before I came back here, and again just a few days ago.”  
“That looks bad, what did he do?” enquires Ëonwë.  
“He bit me.” I say stiffly.  
“He bit you? I need full context,” Ëonwë all but demands, and so Aiwendil and I must tell.  
So we do, tag teaming off, not only so both our perspectives are heard, but so we both rest and don’t get worked up. All the same, I can tell we’re both not far from crying by the time we’re done.  
Ëonwë, on the other hand, is openly shocked, and takes several minutes to think.  
“How did he end up like that?” He utters, more to himself, I think.  
“I do not think any of us can truly know,” I voice.  
“However this happened, we ought to take action soon,” states Ëonwë, back to business, “I’ll make sure the watches are secure and well supplied, and while I’m there, I’ll ask if there was anything sensed.”  
“Thank you,” I nod my head gratefully, “Will you tell us if there was anything learned?”  
“Of course, given what I was told today, I would not be surprised if he’s just cutting his losses now and that he’s planning to come back,” states Ëonwë.  
My heart quails at the thought. I twitch subconsciously, and there’s an arm around me-Aiwendil. I sense his own fear and lean into him, because I know he did that for himself as much as me.  
“Do not worry, we will keep an eye out for him,” Ëonwë smiles, reading our reactions.  
“Thank you,” AIwendil says, quietly  
“Now, I ought to get started, so I wish you two a good night,” Ëonwë stands and gestures to the guard, and they leave the room.  
We leave Herinya Nienna’s a few days later, and the three of us settle into comforting routine.  
It eventually comes to us that Saruman slipped past a guard who was lazy in his duties, and that they had caught the invading Maia and kicked him out.   
“You’re safe now,” decrees the messenger before riding off, and so we are.


	10. A Teen's Rough Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pippin POV: Sexual violence, nightmares and angst and hurt/comfort are the applicable tags. Set after Rough Tales and a Better Comfort but before Loss(.jpeg).

I’m back in The Tower. Why am I here? But that doesn’t matter, because The Cruel One is here and he’s going to hurt me again, maybe even kill me but wouldn’t that be a relief because then he couldn’t destroy me as he has and is going to do.  
It’s going as it did before as he drags me by my foot and then rips off my shirt, and _oh no no _he sees my body for how it is, under Gandalf’s charms, all its curves and lumps I wish I could just cut off so I could look like the boy I _am _.  
"Oh, this is a treat. I hope you're a maid, little girl." It’s those words again and they haunt me and will haunt me forever.  
I feel my pants tear off and he’s going to do it he’s going to hurt me and I brace myself and-  
Sit bolt upright, screaming. “No, NO! Please! Please…” I run for the nearest corner and curl up in it. I’m crying hard and I’m not sure when I started.  
“Pippin? Are you alright?” Asks Merry’s groggy voice. Oh, I’m not in The Tower, am I? Not if Merry’s here. The Cruel One didn’t take him, thankfully.  
I just wail in response, although I’d like to speak.  
He pads towards me and sits down next to me. “What’s wrong?”  
“I-Saruman-he-“ My voice unhelpfully breaks as I try to explain what awful…dream? I just had, and I sob noisily.  
He’s rubbing my arm gently, but his hand is cold for whatever reason and that just reminds me of The Cruel One, so it doesn’t help me much.  
“I’s just a dream-a nightmare,” Merry soothes, “he’s not here.”  
“What’s going on?” Asks a voice at the door warily. Gandalf!  
“Pippin had a nightmare,” explains Merry.  
“Oh no,” says Gandalf sympathetically, “Pippin, where are you?”  
I whimper in response. I manage to uncurl myself and sit, sobbing, in the corner.  
He’s there and he crouches in front of me. “What did you dream of?” He asks kindly.  
“It was…Saruman he- he tried to- _hurtmeagain _,” I get out, haltingly.  
“It’s alright, he cannot touch you now. You are safe.” He sets a hand on my forehead. I press into it without really knowing I’m doing so.  
I hiccup, my shoulders jumping with the sudden noise. I’m startled enough for my crying to renew.  
“Oh dear,” sighs Gandalf, and the hand on my forehead drops to my shoulder, and his other hand goes to mirror.  
I raise my arms up, striving for a hug, my eyes wet and wide.  
Luckily, he’s good at reading body language, so I get the hug I need. I burrow into his chest, and I feel a soft hum of relief echo through him.  
“Need any help?” Asks a second voice at the door. It’s Radagast. Gandalf stands to face him, and I go up with him, clinging around his neck, and as if he’s done this many times, he supports me with a hand around my back and another under my legs. I turn, curiosity flickering among my distress.   
“I do not think so…” Gandalf replies, but he seems uncertain.  
“Here, let me see him,” says Radagast, and I’m turned to fully face him.  
A gentle hand is tucked under my chin, and again I press into it, smiling ever so slightly. “Yes, he’ll be alright.”  
I hiccup again, painfully. I whine and curl my hands into Gandalf’s robe, tears again renewed.  
“It’s alright, it’s alright,” he soothes.  
“You’re being quite paternal,” remarks Radagast.  
“I know,” says Gandalf, voice warm.  
Radagast moves closer and there’s a sound that sounds suspiciously like a kiss. I turn and squint, but Gandalf only laughs softly and kisses my forehead, his regrowing beard tickling me. That makes me feel a lot better. I loosen my hold and snuggle closer to him.   
Gentle fingers probe around my temple and my tears slow and I feel warm and safe and I think that sleep is a wonderful concept. I sigh, quietly, and rest. My last thought is that, perhaps I have two father figures now, and isn't that wonderful.______

______I wake up and see an expanse on brown cloth, rising and falling gently. I am being held, an arm around me and a torso against me. I realize that I’ve been brought to Gandalf and Radagast’s bed, presumably so they’d be there in case the nightmare returned.  
I sit up and look at the two sleeping. They’re facing each other, hands that were not holding me are piled on each other. They look really peaceful, especially Gandalf. I don’t think I’ve seen him so peaceful. I realize, they’re doing wonders for each other.  
Sam’s voice comes in from the kitchen, “Where’s Mr. Pippin?”  
Carefully, I wiggle out of bed and pad to the doorway. “I’m right here,” I say softly.  
“What were you doing in the big folk’s room?” He tilts his head as he walks towards me.  
“I had a nightmare, and they thought it would be best I stay with them.” I dip my head, slightly embarrassed now that I realize such a thing is rather childish.  
“Oh, ‘m sorry,” Sam pats my back.  
“It’s alright-I’m safe here,” I say, moving to the hearth to help fix breakfast._ _ _ _ _ _


	11. Negotiations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf POV: Communication, flirting and mutual pining are the applicable tags. Set directly after A Rough and Broken Night.

I’m still tired from the night’s panic, but I get up all the same, rubbing my eyes and yawning.  
I walk to the doorway, and peer into the kitchen.   
Everyone else is up, clearly I’ve been left to rest. It looks like they’re nearly done making breakfast. I smile gently, seeing that they’re happy and hard at work.  
Aiwendil spots me and comes over. “Come, we’re all but done with breakfast,” he says softly. He sets an arm around my shoulders and guides me to the table.   
The dishes are brought over, but Aiwendil serves me before I can serve myself. I don’t stop him, largely because I don’t find myself objecting to this new affection much.  
“Thank you,” I say gracefully, smiling to him, but he just covers my hand with his.  
I really don’t mind this affection at all.  
I find that I’m rather hungry, so I turn for seconds. However, as I reach for the plate, my hand is taken and stilled.  
“That’s still hot, I’ll get it,” Aiwendil says, taking the spoon and spooning out another portion.   
“I-alright, thank you,” I stutter, a bit confused, but my confusion is wiped away when my hand is squeezed by him.  
Breakfast finishes up and we clean up, but before I can go outside and continue chores there, I’m stilled by a hand in mine.  
“Please, would you stay a moment?” Aiwendil asks, almost tenderly.  
“Yes, of course,” I reply, returning to the table and sitting.  
“We need to talk,” Aiwendil sits opposite me.  
“About last night?”  
“Yes.”  
“If you regret what you-“ I begin, but I’m cut off.  
“I do not regret it, so long as you do not. Do you?” His eyes are wide, waiting.  
“No, I don’t,” I say after a moment’s thought, “I needed it- _thank you, _” I reach my hand and set it on his.  
“Yes, of course,” Aiwendil smiles gently and takes my hand. I blush and look down.  
“But…after what we did, how do we behave to each other?” He asks.  
“How do you mean?”  
“We kissed, Olórin, as…lovers would. I presumed…you meant to be friends, and just friends.”  
“I thought that is what you wanted, so I took my actions accordingly, until…” I trail off. We both know the ending anyway.  
“Yes, until. But don’t mind me, what do you want?”  
“I thought I wanted that too, but after last night…I’m not sure. Some part of me clearly has not let go of the-our past.”  
“I know…I haven’t forgotten our past either, I don’t think I could, even though we split unhappily two thousand years ago.” Aiwendil sighs softly.  
“No, I don’t suppose I could forget, but I more meant…let go of hope for…continuation.” I look down, unable to meet his eyes. If he says there is no hope, I realize harshly, suddenly, I don’t know what I’ll do.  
“I do not think you must let go of hope. No, I have always…cared for you, after we met, even after we split.”  
I am struck by urgency to find out if this is truly his mind. “Truly, Aiwendil, is this your heart? If you say this merely to comfort me, I would have you say so.”  
He looks at me, not a little shocked. “What purpose would it serve to give you false hope? No, I have wished ever that we could go back to how we were.”  
Hope flowers potently in my chest, as the feelings I had locked away try to spring forth.  
(Pray heart, do not have that much hope. He’s probably not feeling the same way.)  
“I...would have what you will, going forward,” I dip my head down.  
“I wish to let things…develop naturally. To not restrain ourselves from behavior or words, so long as we both consent. To not shy from actions just because they are associated with certain titles.”  
“You would not restrain or label us?” I clarify.  
“Yea, so long as we both agree on it, let us do as we wish.”  
“Yes, that is agreeable to me.” I smile.  
(Pray heart, that means you shouldn’t claim him as lover.)  
“May it be,” he says.   
“We ought to start chores,” I say, struck by the want to change the subject.  
“Come then, we can work,” he takes my hand and pulls me to the door, and we walk together to start our duties.__


	12. Comfort to the Son, Comforts the Father

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf POV: This is A Teen's Rough Night from Gandalf POV. Mild Sexual Content and Angst and H/C are the applicable tags.

“-NO! Please! Please…” The desperate yells yank me from sleep. I sit up and shake Aiwendil.  
“Aiwendil, Aiwendil!” I call softly. He stirs under me and turns to face me.  
“I-what?” He looks confused, and I don’t think he heard the yell.  
“One of the hobbits just yelled, dear, they’re in some sort of trouble!”  
He awakens at that, sitting up suddenly and rubbing his eyes.  
“Grab your clothes and let’s go,” he says with quite some decisiveness.  
So we do, hastily pulling on robes-I don’t bother with the buttons on my back, leaving it open-and we go swiftly and quietly to the hobbit’s room.  
Aiwendil gestures me forward and so I step into the doorway, and ask warily, “What’s going on?”  
Merry’s voice comes from somewhere near the far corner. “Pippin had a nightmare.”  
A slight relief goes through me; at least it isn’t assailants that trouble them.  
At the same time, a wave of sympathy and compassion comes through me and I say, “Oh no, Pippin, where are you?”  
A whimper comes from the far corner, not far from Merry. I walk over, nudge Merry over, and crouch in front of Pippin. I debate a moment on what to say, but I figure that it’s hard to comfort a hurt you do not know the details of.  
“What did you dream of?” I ask gently.  
Pippin takes a few deep breaths. “It was…Saruman he- he tried to- _hurtmeagain _,” he stutters out, trembling and crying.  
“It’s alright, he cannot touch you now. You are safe,” I reassure the lad. Now, I need to ascertain how badly this nightmare has hit him. I set a hand on his forehead, in order to aid in my search. I probe gently, knowing that a sudden leap in would scare the boy.   
I find that he is not reacting as I sometimes do; forgetting where he is and who those around him are, but he is still scared and shaken and in desperate need of comfort.  
He presses into my hand, seeking touch, I sense, and almost absently I give a small blessing in response.  
A moment later, however, a hiccup rattles Pippin and he starts crying afresh.  
“Oh dear,” I sigh, setting my hands on his shoulders.  
He looks up at me, his eyes wide and tearful, and holds out shaky arms to me. “Hug me,” his heart cries silently, and so I do.  
I draw him in, and he burrows into my chest, small and trusting. A hum of relief escapes me. Selfishly, I feel, I am relieved to have him in my arms and there against me, so that I can protect him, that he trusts me so.  
Aiwendil’s voice comes from the door. “Need any help?”  
I stand to face him, and I readjust my hold on Pippin, a hand around his middle back and another under his thighs, careful not to touch his upper chest or hips or rear. I feel Pippin turn to face Aiwendil, a spark of curiosity flaring in him.  
“I do not think so…” I would actually like help, but I don’t need it.  
“Here, let me see him,” Aiwendil is at my side and I turn Pippin to face him.  
Aiwendil sets gentle fingers under the lad’s chin, I sense he too is probing, making sure the boy is indeed alright. I muse that Aiwendil was always able to do this sort of thing easier, with less contact needed and quieter words. Pippin again responds well, pressing into the fingers, almost nuzzling them.  
“Yes, he’ll be alright,” determines Aiwendil.  
Pippin hiccups again, harshly, painfully, and he whines in distress and clutches to me.  
“It’s alright, it’s alright,” I soothe quickly, gently bouncing him.  
“You’re being quite paternal,” remarks Aiwendil, a smile in his voice. He’s watched the entire thing from the doorway, and has probably guessed my mind.  
“I know,” I say, the same warmth in my voice.  
He leans into me and we kiss briefly, a peck, and when we part I see Pippin looking at us curiously. Unashamed, I laugh a moment before turning and kissing Pippin’s brow, passing along with it a blessing of peace. The affect is immediate, his hands relaxing their strained grip on my robe and he burrows into me, trusting his weight to me.   
In a unified motion, both Aiwendil and I raise fingers to Pippin’s temple, and with our Power ease him to sleep. His tears slow to a stop and he sighs, content.  
For a while, I just stand there, and the world is silent with night’s peace. But Merry speaks up, asking, “Will he be alright?”  
“Yes, he’ll be alright, he just needs to rest,” I say after a moment’s thought.  
Another voice, groggy, comes from Samwise’s bed. “What’s been goin’ on?”  
“It’s alright Sam, go back to sleep,” soothes Aiwendil, and I hear his bed shift and a soft, sleepy grunt.  
“What are you going to do with Pippin?” Asks Merry shyly.  
“I…” I begin, before I realize my first choice of just standing here all night is not practical, no matter how much I don’t wish to disturb the youth presently resting on me.  
“I had the thought that he stay with us, just til morning,” voices Aiwendil.  
“But he sleeps here, with me,” protests Merry.  
“But if he has another nightmare, he’d wake you again, and I’d rather that not happen,” I explain, quickly working off of Aiwendil’s idea.  
“I don’t mind!” Merry draws himself to his full height.  
“But I do,” I gently say, “you need your rest.”  
“I-but-oh, alright.” Merry goes back to his bed.  
“Shall we?” Aiwendil offers his arm, and I put it around me, and together we go back to our bed, Pippin sleeping silently.  
I lie him gently on the middle of the bed, and Aiwendil and I get into bed from opposite sides. As it worked out, I was curled loosely around Pippin with an arm draped over him-a method I had found worked with Frodo when he was a child and still having nightmares of dark waters and faulty boats.  
Aiwendil faces me, and sets his arm on top of mine. It isn’t hard to fall asleep at all.  
/  
When I next wake, I realize Pippin isn’t there. My arm lies on still-warm mattress. My other hand is sandwiched by Aiwendil’s hands.  
The sounds of early breakfast prep come from the kitchen. I presume that he woke and then started breakfast.  
I sit up, and in doing so, jostle Aiwendil’s hands. He stirs and looks at me sleepily, and in my humble opinion, adorably.  
I bend to kiss his temple and he nuzzles into me, pulling as flush to me as he can, and I sense he needs more touch and affection than I ought to give with the hobbits in close proximity.  
I blush lightly, and whisper, “It’s time to get up, dear.”  
He only, somehow, gets closer to me, nose pressing into the juncture between shoulder and neck, and I fight with some difficulty the urge to kiss him and forget breakfast.  
I gently pull away, trailing my hand down his arm so that we could hold hands and yet touch, but none the less, my separation pulls a rather pitiable noise of sadness from him.  
I tug his hand and he sits up, blinking sleep from his eyes. “I’m up, I’m up,” he protests sadly, pitiably.  
I have to hug him now, and so I do, kissing what skin I can reach. He presses to me, humming happily, but I pull away, smile, and say, “For later, dear, later.”  
He frowns, almost a pout, but acquiesces. We get dressed, and Aiwendil insists upon helping me as much as he can, his fingers ‘slipping’ and grazing skin rather often, a last ditch attempt to convince me that breakfast can wait.  
“I know you’re awake in there!” Merry calls, almost grumpy, and once we finish dressing, I kiss Aiwendil once, smile, and lead the way to the kitchen.__


	13. False Blame and Real Injury

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pippin POV: Implied Rape, Angst and H/C and Blood and Injury are the applicable tags. Set before Prologue.

It had to happen eventually, I suppose, so even though I suspect he knows already, one day some time after we were released from The Tower, I start talking about what happened that last day, how I was hurt.  
“And that’s…what happened, to leave out the details,” I sigh sadly and continue, “I just wish…it never happened.”  
A pause and then, “Well if you had fought…” Gandalf seems to be thinking aloud to himself, but still the words rub me the wrong way.  
“But I did! I-I told you so!”  
“Then you ought to have tried harder,” he says in an almost bitter tone.  
“But-but-“ I stutter, feeling suddenly confused and scared-why is Gandalf reacting like this?  
“If you had actually fought, this wouldn’t have happened!” He thunders, frightening me greatly. His eyes aren’t angry though, they’re a frighteningly potent combination of numb and bitter which is worse, as if he doesn’t care what he’s doing, like he’s changed. Although he scares and insults me, he barely spares me a glance; does he not even care enough to look at me? Even The Cruel One looked at me…  
Oh goodness does he hate me? He blames _me, me! _for what happened, doesn’t he, he thinks I…deserved it doesn’t he? If I stay he could hit me or-or-__  
I burst out into loud tears, and strike blindly at him, my hand finding its mark before I sprint away, wailing.  
Pursuit does not come immediately. Indeed, after my initial blind run away, I eventually slow, and plotting my flight more carefully, I curve and back track so I don’t make an easy target for Gandalf.  
I wonder what Merry’s doing. I hope he’s left the wizard, left him to find and comfort me, to show him the consequences of his actions.  
Eventually, I get hungry. I start keeping an eye out for both food, and a place to rest, and as fate would have it I find both at the same time. A patch of berry bushes with a small cove in the middle, just large enough for me to curl up in. I wiggle my way in, getting a few scratches, but that’s worth safety.  
I slowly nibble on the berries in easy reach. Now what? After the drive of my flight, I have to figure out how I’ll live apart from Gandalf and maybe Merry as well. After all, before he turned on me, Gandalf was our caregiver, he guided us and made sure we had food. Now, I have to do that for myself.  
As I plot, I hear footsteps. I still myself, making even my breath shallow and silent.  
“Pippin? Pippin?” Calls Merry from behind me. Thank goodness!  
“Over here,” I call, standing as well I may.  
“There you are! We’ve been so worried!”  
“What do you mean, we?” I feel a sudden suspicion well up.  
“Gandalf and I, of course! Come on, we’ve been looking for hours.”  
I shy away, stepping back into the thorns and scratching myself worse. “No!” I cry, “I’m not going with you! I don’t trust him! How dare you trust him, after what he’s done!”  
Merry reels under my sudden anger, clearly shocked. Tears start to my eyes, and I blink them back. Now that Merry can’t be trusted, I won’t be soft around him. I won’t!  
“GO AWAY!” I yell, distress bleeding into my anger and cracking my voice. Somehow, he leaves, turning and walking slowly but surely away.  
Once he’s out of sight, I slip out of the bushes and flee.  
I find a more thorny and dense bush clump, and crawl in, exhausted. Secure in the knowledge that I can’t be seen, I drift into a dreamful sleep.  
/  
I wake before dawn after a nightmare that only cemented my growing fear of Gandalf. I stay in the bushes until the sun rises and hunger forces me to find food. For awhile I wander, lost, but eventually as I peer up into the branches of the space forest I’m in, I see a nest. Eggs!  
Wait. I have no way to start a fire, let alone cook. But I need food, so I decide raw eggs are better than nothing. Desperation drives me up the tree, and I scout out the nest. Three white eggs lie within. Score!  
I reach my hand out for the nearest, and a loud bird’s cry erupts from just above me. I do not heed it, but as soon as my fingers grasp it, talons defend on my hand and I shriek, falling back in surprise, and as a result, falling out of the tree.  
Somehow, I don’t think anything’s broken, but I’ve gotten several deep scratches from branches and I’m winded, so for the moment, the mother bird, a small eagle maybe, has her way with me, and punishes me for my boldness.  
I start crying, pain and hunger and grief all coming to a head, but as soon as I can move I bold wildly, trying to shake off the pecking and scarring bird.  
Eventually, she gets bored and leaves me be, and I wander slowly, bleeding from many wounds that I cannon treat and crying, rather loudly. I could be heard, but I don’t have the energy to stop.  
I almost regret leaving Gandalf, but the bitter and wounded part of me shoves that aside.  
I find myself climbing another tree, limbs annoyed, but I find a comfortable nook in which to rest and be out of reach.  
Footsteps suddenly, running, clomp their way towards me, and it must be Gandalf and Merry. I freeze, terrified, and I realize that they’ll see me.  
“Pippin! Pippin!” They cry, and by the worry in their voices, they heard me shriek at the bird’s attack.  
Gandalf has the foresight to look everywhere, and his eyes alight on me, almost as they pass my tree too.  
“There you are!” He calls to me, halting and coming to stand under my nook. I shy away, towards the trunk and behind another branch in a useless attempt to hide myself.  
“Oh Pippin, you look awful,” says Gandalf, pityingly, and I hate that pity. “What happened to you?”  
“Like you’d care!” I spit back, anger overriding both fear and worry if my lashing out could bring consequences.  
He blinks, and falls silent.  
“You’re bleeding! It looks like you fought something! Come down so we can bandage you.” Yells Merry, taking up the slack.  
“I don’t trust you!” I yell back, standing on the branch I’m on.  
“Please, you need to be bandaged, infection could kill you,” wheedles Gandalf.  
“How do I know you’ll heal and not harm me?” I demand, keeping a rough face up because some small scared part of me wants to beg forgiveness and return.  
“I-“ Gandalf begins but I cut him off. “Swear me an oath,” I say proudly, cooly, “that you will not hurt me and that you do not mean to hurt me, and I’ll come out.”  
Gandalf flounders for a moment, looks nervous about my proposition. Of course he’d be nervous, he does mean harm after all.  
“You have my oath that I do not mean you harm, nor will I hurt you,” he says, and I can tell, somehow, that he is not as certain as his tone projects.  
Now, beholden to my part of the deal, I crawl out to farther along the branch, and sit with legs dangling above them. Gandalf steps forward, and raises his hands up as if to catch me.  
“Please, Pippin, come down,” he says, earnestly, almost a beg. But almost as I begin to acquiesce, his reaching fingers seize my ankles and pull and _No, NO thats’s what The Cruel One did _and blindly, wildly I squirm out of his grip and scramble up a branch, which I dimly register as thin, and brittle.__  
Gandalf looks confused and worried, and stands, mouth open slightly, arms still up, but drooping.  
“What-what did I do wrong?” He asks.  
“You HURT ME!” I bellow, and suddenly tears spring forth and I’m almost bawling out of nowhere. “You take an oath of no harm to me and you destroy it within minutes! MINUTES! I HATE YOU!” I’m screaming by the end, hurt and fear driving my words.  
He looks almost dazed, and his eyes get over-bright with what I guess, and some awful part of me hopes, is tears. He stands silent for almost a full minute, lost, before he speaks.  
“I-I’m so sorry, I did not know-“  
“Clearly,” I snarl coldly, “You know why that hurts? Because Saruman did the same thing when I tried to hide from him. He pulled me by the ankles into the room so he could hurt me.” I say, viciously, lashing out with my words as if they were a blade, and by the spreading horror on Gandalf’s face, it might have actually been one.  
He hangs his head in his hands, defeated. I think his shoulders shake slightly. Merry goes and hugs him. I pull a face and pull myself closer to the trunk, and the branch I’m on groans and complains. Merry notices, and looks at it, worried, but if Gandalf notices at all, he doesn’t show it.  
I’m shaking at this point, still crying. Now that there’s a lull in speaking, my emotions start to fade, and regret trickles in about purposely going after Gandalf.  
All of a sudden, a violent hiccup seizes my torso, making me jump slightly. The branch groans perilously and it starts to crack and I begin to panic, because I’m still not ready to trust Gandalf to catch me. Merry looks even more worried, and moves slightly as if he would catch me. Gandalf, face pulled into his usual ‘serious duty’ mask, snaps his head out of his hands and nudges Merry to the side, and prepares to catch me.  
I cling to the trunk and an even higher branch desperately, but my small and sweaty hands aren’t aided by panic or hunger or wound and I tremble violently in my struggle. I whine and whimper, teeth gritted, but no matter how hard I try my hands are losing their grip.  
“Let go,” bids Gandalf, quietly, coaxingly.  
“No!” I cry, trying again to redshift my grip to somewhere more stable, this time bringing both my hands onto the same high branch. The branch I was perched on snaps off and falls, and I almost scream. I struggle and try to pull myself up by brute force onto the branch I cling to, but I’m just not strong enough and I feel that my arms about to fail.  
I wail in distress and my tears stream down. My hands slip down the branch, and it bends beneath me and I slide off it entirely, and I scream and scream and scream I hit something and my back hurts it aches and stings and I scream some more and-  
Hands seize me, slowing and stopping my fall but I’m facing away from the arm’s body but now I’m being turned and pressed into a torso and I nearly cling to it but then I realize it’s Gandalf.  
I flail against him, not willing to give up my flight or desperate fight, my small hands and feet striking against him uselessly. Oddly, he doesn’t stop me, doesn’t hold me at arm’s length, lets me hit him. I’m shocked enough to pause and then I’m practically squashed into him, some domed thing-his forehead, set on my shoulder- and my legs and feet and hands have nowhere to go, they can’t strike.  
I still remain tense, and no matter how much I may need it, I don’t give into a hug. Gandalf, however, starts apologizing over and over, sometimes whispering and sometimes at a more regular voice, and I feel him start to shake-I’ve seriously worried and grieved him. I’m moved by a sudden flood of pity to start awkwardly patting his head. He just sniffs wetly and squeezes me, and finally the dam breaks, my tears renewed, I return the hug and cling tightly to him, sobbing.  
As best he can through his own turmoil, he comforts me.  
Suddenly Merry speaks up, saying, “Let’s get back to the camp we made, come on.”  
He guides us both back to this camp, and my panic flares again briefly, although now I’m exhausted. I don’t trust Gandalf or this sudden move for a camp but through my haze of tiredness I can’t find the words to express that, so I mutter, “I still hate you.”  
Gandalf heaves a sigh and says heavily, “Don’t worry dear boy, I’m not very fond of myself either.”  
Soon after that, I fall asleep, and am forced to trust him.  
/  
When I wake, I’m by a fire in a small clearing in these sparse woods. Moving around, I’m stiff and sore but my wounds don’t hurt as much, and when I investigate a particularly bad peck from the bird, I find it bandaged. My over clothes have been stripped off me, but my under clothes are on, and shifting I don’t feel anything off as if I’ve been hurt again. Indeed I spot my clothes, a few feet off, sitting in a neat pile. My coat has a needle in it. Someone has been patching the holes left in it by both bird and bush.  
I sit up, and find a blanket was also tucked around me. I take it off.  
“You’re awake! How are you?” Asks Merry from out of my sight.  
“I’m awful sore, but not too badly off,” I say.  
“Gandalf said that would happen, you took a nasty fall before he caught you and he suspects whatever made you scream before we found you had you falling off or out of something too.”  
“So long story short, I’m all banged up.”  
“Basically,” Merry’s voice is sympathetic and sad. I hear him inch closer and he sets his hand on my shoulder, gently, because there’s a bandage there, but all the same I flinch.  
“Is…this alright?” He asks, and I shrug, not entirely enjoying it but not against it either. He takes the shrug as me disliking it but being unwilling to say so, so he starts to move his hand away, and impulsively I put his hand back, and we just sit awhile.  
Footsteps come close and Gandalf comes back, carting what I sure hope is food. All the same, I cringe from him, expecting some assault or anger, and holding my hands in front of me I whisper, “I’m sorry Gandalf, I’m sorry sorry for running away, sorry-“ but he cuts in heavily, saying, “No, it is I who should be sorry.”  
He puts down his bag and kneels in front of me so we’re closer to eye to eye.  
“I was the one with my cruel words insulted you, blamed you for something you should never be blamed for. It is my fault you felt the need to flee and hide, and thus because of me you gained these wounds,” he takes my arm, which again has a bandage on it, gently in hand to settle his point. “No, dear boy, this is my fault, and thus I am so very, terribly sorry.”  
He dips his head and I read his words as true. He looks bitterly guilty, painfully so.  
“I’m not sure how I can fix what I have done but…” He trails off, looking to nothing, eyes mournful and wide.  
“You’ve done a great deal already,” I say gently, feeling my own guilt for having given him this anguish, “you put up with my flight and patiently stayed with me even as I declared hatred of you, you caught me as I fell and let me flail against you, you carried me here and presumable have bandaged me and are trying to sew my clothes back together, which, by the way, I am perfectly capable of doing, and you know it.” I raise my eyebrow at his kindly attempts to win back my favor. After all he does know I can sew-he knows what life I was initially raised to have, what skills, like sewing, that entails.  
“All I ask now is tolerate what flinching and cringing I might do, and please do not blame me for It again.”  
“Yes, of course,” he says quickly, and he seems to be happy I hold him to so few terms.  
“Thank you for putting up with me, and I’m sorry for being troublesome and petulant,” I smile wryly, and reach out to Gandalf’s arm.  
“Stubborn boy,” he whispers, almost laughs, and hugs me. I hug back after a moment, and perhaps we’ll be alright.


	14. Bad Decisions of an Anxious Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf POV: This is False Blame and Real Injury in his perspective. Additional tags are Anxiety, Attempted self harm, Mental Health Issues, and Generally Yikes. This is dark, be warned.

One day, perhaps two or three weeks after we flee Orthanc, Pippin starts to open up about what happened to him. I’d guessed what had happened, but to hear my suspicions confirmed feels…awful. I had been secretly hoping that I had sensed everything wrong and that he hadn’t been subjected to such horrors, but alas he has.  
As his story gets more and more harsh, my own emotions-sympathy, empathy, horror, anger and much guilt- threaten to overwhelm me. It’s as if they’re blocking out everything around me; I barely register Pippin talking anymore, or what I see.  
“I just wish…it never happened,” worms its way into my head. I find myself saying back, “Well if you had fought…”  
That same voice, from within me, I presume, objects, saying, “But I did! I-I told you so!”  
“Then you ought to have tried harder,” I bitterly rebuke myself.  
“But-but-“  
“If you had actually fought, this wouldn’t have happened!” I angrily berate myself, feeling I deserved at least this much self-chastisement for my own inability to protect one of the only two beings I can still protect.  
A swat, ill placed, lands on my upper leg. It smarts slightly. Wait-where did that come from? Then the sound of someone running away, behind me.  
I rub my leg absently as I stand confused. Wait, did I say all that out-  
Something-a fist-slams into my hip, far more targeted than the swat. I make a noise of surprise as I twist with the strike.  
“What on earth is WRONG WITH YOU?!” Yells Merry, enraged. Oh I did say that out loud, and that was Pippin who ran off, oh no he thought he was the target of my words, what have I done-  
“You scared Pippin so much he ran off crying and YOU STAND THERE AND DO NOTHING?! HOW DARE YOU!”  
Growing horror roots me, and while I would love to run after Pippin, I can’t.  
“And still you stand! You still stare to nothing and do not act! Do you even CARE?”  
I find it within myself to move-my hands. I look at them, and move to brush them through my hair, up towards my face.  
“Oh no, you don’t have time to cry.” He seizes my arm and yanks me backward with what I presume is all his strength. I stumble and nearly fall, and I very nearly do cry. I choke back the tears and right myself.  
He keeps tugging me backward, and I find I can walk again, and I turn in the direction we’re heading. “Come ON! He went this way. Hopefully, he hasn’t gotten too far ahead.”  
Unluckily, there isn’t much to disturb or much to track, and Pippin didn’t drop anything. We go slowly, at my suggestion; running footsteps would only produce more panic, and stamina is key. If Pippin ran himself down, we can’t follow in his footsteps and wear ourselves out.  
Eventually, we agree to split slightly up, staying within eyesight but also seeing a bit more than if we walked side by side. I also suspect Merry is still, rightfully, angry with me. After about an hour of this, Merry turns suddenly, and I heard it too-rustling bushes. It’s a slim hope, but I nod to Merry, silently bidding him investigate.  
“Aren’t you coming too?” He asks, quietly, head tilted to one side.  
“I think I would scare him still, but you hopefully will not. You go first, try to coax him back.” I’ve already made myself a bit of a monster to the lad, no need to be seen by him.  
He slips off, heading for the bushes, and I hear him calling as he gets father from me.  
Silence and then-yes! Soft conversation but then- “GO AWAY!” Pippin bellows, rejecting Merry for whatever reason.  
Merry comes back dejectedly and says, “He blew up at me when I mentioned I wasn’t looking for him by myself.”  
“He presumes that you’re working with me?” I ask.  
“I said as much. He doesn’t trust you at all, and now doesn’t trust me because we’re working together.” He looks bitter, as if he regrets siding with me.  
“I think he views you as a threat, Gandalf, like you’ll…hit him or something if you catch him.”  
“I-I wouldn’t do that!” I object, because I wouldn’t, he’s suffered enough and he’s a child!  
“To him, you have already raised your hand,” Merry says sadly, “and how can he know you won’t bring it down?”  
Of course, I have hurt him already, hurt him and driven him off into the wild, without guide, oh he could _die out here I can’t protect him anymore I’ve lost him, killed him and it’s my fault, my fault my fault my-_  
“Take a breath,” says Merry, looking at me with some concern. I do, and it’s more ragged than I expected. My eyes prick with tears that I force back. I realize my eyes and jaw are clenched and I force them to relax. I take another breath. I can focus now.  
“Are you alright?” He asks, still concerned.  
I breathe again, and say, controlling my voice, “I’m alright. Where was Pippin last? If he gets lost he could…die and so we might have to take him back with some force, however much I don’t wish to scare him.”  
Merry sighs. “That makes sense, although its not my favorite option. Here, he was just in some bush clump.” He starts back towards where we went and I follow.  
We come upon a patch of berry bushes. There’s a gap in their centre wide enough for a hobbit, and there aren’t any berries near it.  
“I-Where’d he go? I didn’t hear him go…” Merry wonders, and indeed there is no Pippin anywhere in or around the bushes.  
“He must have snuck off as you reported back,” I suggest.  
Merry shrugs and nods. “This is going to make searching harder, and to top it off, I’m getting hungry.”  
“We ought to make a camp of a sort before night, and get some food. I doubt Pippin has had much on his flight.” I say.  
“But make camp now? Break off the search?” Merry is nervous.  
“It will do us no good to hunt through the night, Merry, we need to be able to search dutifully. Without food and sleep, we won’t search well.”  
“But what if Pippin keeps running through the night? What if he gets really lost? What if-what if we lose him for..ever?” Merry whispers, and I can tell he seeks reassurance.  
“Hopefully, he’ll be tired and find somewhere nearby to sleep, but I admit, there is a chance he’ll fly through the night, and then… well, there’ll be less hope.”  
“What do we do if we just can’t find him?”   
“We… I say we look for a week. If there’s no sign of him for a week straight, we give up the hunt.”I say, heart heavy, sad I even have to say those words.  
Merry looks mournful, but accepts my statement without word.  
“Should…we make camp?” He asks at length.  
“Yes, now’s a good time as any.”  
So we do, finding a small clearing and setting our stuff down. I leave Merry to start a fire as I go out and search the area for food, and secretly, what herbs and plants can be used medicinally. Somehow, I know I’ll have to treat injuries.  
I set watches through the night, to make sure any wanderer is caught, and take most of them. But no-one wanders near or through our camp.  
/  
We wake early, and after we eat I lay out our plan. We circle out, going in wider and wider arcs so we cover as much ground as possible.  
After a few circles, we’re walking quietly together, and any resentment Merry holds for me seems to be overridden by comfort seeking; oft he reaches out, takes an arm or hand and holds it before letting go.  
I’m just thinking of breaking to find food for lunch when a shriek, far away but audible, rips through the air. Pippin! What on earth could make him scream like that it sounds like something hurt him is it an ambush, oh no it could be orcs and I have no weapons I cannot save him he’ll die and-  
“Gandalf, come on!” Cries Merry, a few feet away, looking back at me.  
I shake myself, and say, “Let’s go! He’s in trouble!”  
I take off running, and, adjusting my pace so as to not leave Merry behind me, head for the scream.  
As we run and approach the spot where presumably Pippin screamed, I hear loud crying, at first too faintly to register properly, and then louder. I turn off, towards the sound, and soon afterwards find a spot of blood on the ground. Oh _no, what happened,_ how bad are his wounds how could I let this happen _how dare I I am an awful guardian and-_  
“Come on! We’re on the trail now!” Calls Merry, looking back when he realizes-and I realize-that I’ve been halted for a moment.  
I make myself run on, but soon I’m stopped again- a wall of brambles blocks our path. There’s a gap, hobbit sized, but I could not fit through without scratching myself.  
“Go on through, and stay there, I’ll find a way around,” I tell Merry, who scrambles through the hole.  
I walk to my left, along the unforgiving line of hedge, wild and tall, probably planted ages ago and only maintained at all by this area’s dryness and proximity to Mordor. There’s a gap not too far though, and I squeeze though and make my way back to Merry, who looks tense and agitated.  
Without word we set off again, finding more blood along the way, a cruel trail. The crying gets louder, until we must reach its source, when it hushes suddenly.  
Panic seizes me, and I fear the very worst, and I sprint forward, yelling for Pippin desperately, Merry following as fast as he may.  
I scan everywhere, ground, behind trees, in trees until-what’s that, in a tree, on a forked branch sits a small figure! Relief flows through me, and I run to be under the tree, calling, “There you are!”  
Pippin shies away, behind another branch, trying to hide himself, and I don’t blame him. I get a better look at him: he’s bloody and scratched, he looks as if some clawed animal had assailed him, and maybe fallen from a tree for good measure. His clothes are torn and his face is pale and frightened, his eyes red rimmed.  
“Oh Pippin, you look awful,” I ask, trying to sound sympathetic and not panicked, “what happened to you?”  
“Like you’d care!” He spits back, venomous.   
I blink, shocked. I object, I do care, I need to know what’s happened to him, if some orc or creature has assailed those under _my guardianship then so help me I will-_  
But he doesn’t know that, thinks me against him, knows me as the awful person I am, knows how bad I truly truly truly-  
“You’re bleeding! It looks like you fought something! Come down so we can bandage you.” Yells Merry, taking up the slack that I dropped.  
“I don’t trust you!” Pippin yells back, standing up.  
“Please, you need to be bandaged, infection could kill you,” I ask of him, beg of him, because even if I do lose him, even if he rightfully hates me and will not come back, I won’t let him go without trying.  
“How do I know you’ll heal and not harm me?” He demands, but I sense he’s not as tough as he acts.  
I’m not entirely sure what to say, but I start speaking anyway. “I-“ but I’m cut off.  
“Swear me an oath,” he says cooly, cold pride lacing his voice, “that you will not hurt me and that you do not mean to hurt me, and I’ll come out.”  
Of course he asks me for a oath. I don’t blame him, but one misspoken oath brings terrible danger, and I cannot afford that ever. I have to plot it carefully, lest I tie all three of us to some terrible fate. I won’t swear by anything. No, I’ll offer ‘by my oath’ or something like that. Hopefully he takes it, because it’s the best I can bear to offer.  
“You have my oath that I do not mean you harm, nor will I hurt you,” I swear, trying to sound more confident than I feel, because even this oath makes me nervous.  
Pippin is satisfied, and comes inching along the branch and sits, legs dangling, in full view. Hope starts to bud in my chest and I step to be under him and reach up.  
“Please, Pippin, come down,” I beg, earnest, and he looks to almost, almost want to, so I take his ankles in hand and tug gently, trying to guide him down and he-  
Flies into a panic and yanks himself away from me, scrambling onto a branch higher up that I doubt can support his weight for long.  
I am utterly confused at why he suddenly panicked, unless it be because I misread him, and he still hates me. Did I only hurt him worse?  
“What-what did I do wrong?” I ask, seeking answers.  
“You HURT ME!” He bellows, and suddenly tears shine and fall from his eyes; he’s almost bawling out of nowhere. “You take an oath of no harm to me and you destroy it within minutes! MINUTES! I HATE YOU!”   
My fears are true. He hates me and he will not return, I have hurt him too deeply, down to his heart, and he will suffer forever, and it is all my fault, it is my fault he fled and got so wounded, my fault he is bloody and scarred, I may as well have struck him myself, which I guess I have, over and over, because I let myself hope and tried too fast, I am awful and a fool and _how can I even claim to care for him when I deal him such pain, how dare I, how dare I how dare I how-_  
I dimly notice that my eyes are prickling with tears. I blink, and breathe, trying for one last, desperate rally.  
“I-I’m so sorry, I did not know-“ I get out before Pippin cuts me short again, as he should.  
“Clearly,” he snarls coldly, “You know why that hurts? Because Saruman did the same thing when I tried to hide from him. He pulled me by the ankles into the room so he could hurt me.” His voice is a vicious sneer, and the word stab at me as if they were a blade.  
I have done something in mirror of Saruman. I have dealt the same harm as _Saruman, that is unforgivable and I hate myself for it, Pippin is right to hate me, for I have dealt him deadly harm, for I have become his enemy, and I thought arrogantly I wasn’t like Saruman, but no we are twins, and I am as bad as he is, bad as Saruman, awful awful awful-_  
I register that I’ve hid me face in my hands and that I’m crying, sobbing silently, gripping at my shorn hair as if that would help. Something warm envelops my hips and it’s Merry, he’s hugging me, trying to give me comfort I do not deserve. But none the less, I do not shake him off, because maybe this is helping him too.  
I hear a small noise come from Pippin-a hiccup- and then the ominous creak and crack of a breaking branch and oh no Pippin’s about to fall.   
I force all emotion down and away, and smoothing my face to a mask I move to be ready to catch Pippin, nudging Merry away and raising my hands up.  
Pippin clings desperately to another branch and the tree, whining and straining to keep his grip, trembling, shaking like a leaf in a storm.  
“Let go,” I coax, because he could hurt himself by straining like that, and I can catch him, I hope.  
“No!” He cries, and he doesn’t trust me to catch him, and I understand that, but he must.  
The ailing branch snaps off and falls, and Pippin tries to pull himself on arm strength alone, but I can tell he weakens.   
He wails, panicked, and I see teardrops start to fall from him and they fall fast and swift.  
His hands slide down the branch he holds to and it bends supplely, so that he has no choice but to fall down. He screams in terror and screams and screams but he’s too high for me to reach, and he falls, hits his back hard on a branch- NO, no please don’t let him be injured and left unable to move- and he keeps screaming, and YES! He’s in arm’s reach and I nab him and slow his fall, stop him.  
Instinctively I turn him to face me and pull him in, but as soon as he gets within his arm’s reach of me he starts flailing, striking wildly against and around me, clearly a panicked and disorganized attempt to free himself.  
I don’t move to stop him or lessen the strikes’s damage on me. I figure I’ve earned this much recompense-I know I have.  
After a minute, Pippin pauses his flailing, and I take the opportunity to hug him tight because even though it’s a selfish selfish want I must.  
I rest my forehead on his shoulder. I feel he is still tense, unwilling to give in to me. I sense some part of him truly needs comfort, but I know he won’t take it from me.  
I start shaking, sobbing quietly and with few actual tears, just quaking as all my emotions catch up with me.  
Something is touching my head-Pippin is patting me, uncertainly, but oh I appreciate the gesture even if it is borne solely of distant pity for an old broken soul.  
I sniff, noisily, and squeeze the boy in my arms, ad that’s the breaking point, he falls to me, returning my hug almost desperately, and sobbing with many tears into my collar.  
I try to put aside my grief to wholly focus on comforting the lad, and it works, about halfway.  
Merry takes my elbow and pulls on it, saying, “Let’s get back to the camp we made, come on.”  
I let him guide us back. I feel Pippin tense again-is he worried about us moving?- but I can tell exhaustion lies heavy on him.  
“I still hate you,” he mutters, and while I can tell he means something different, I sigh deeply and say, “Don’t worry dear boy, I’m not very fond of myself either.”  
Soon, he’s asleep on my shoulder.  
/  
As soon as we get to camp, I have Merry reignite the fire and get some water warm so I can bathe Pippin’s wounds. I gently take his torn over clothes off so I can see how bad he is.  
He has many small gashes on his arms and shoulders and a few on his upper back, chest and face. Luckily his neck was spared.  
I pull out the bandages I have and Merry hands me the warm kettle. Dampening a strip of bandage, I start to gently clean the wounds, wiping away the blood and sometimes flecks of dirt or string. Pippin flinches slightly in his sleep, but does not wake.  
After that, I start binding the wounds, a slow process so as to not disturb him.   
I finish and wonder what next to do. I remember that Pippin’s clothes are a mess, holes all over.  
Laying his blanket over him, I dig out the small kit I keep on me for when my robes tear.  
I pull out the needle, thread, roll of cloth, and small blade to cut the cloth.  
I measure out a square to cover a hole in the shoulder, cut it, and slowly sew it closed.  
The second, a hole on the left arm, I begin. At this point, it’s night, and both hobbits are asleep.  
Some leery, chill voice in the back of my mind speaks up in the middle, though, just as I am about make another stitch.  
“ _That needle looks sharp…perfect for stabbing._ ”  
What? No, I won’t hurt the hobbits, not anymore. I pull the needle in closer to myself.  
“ _No, no, I meant for yourself. You could so easily do it! A simple poke, blood comes out. You know you deserve it…_ ”  
Deserve it I might, but that doesn’t mean it’s a wise idea or something I’ll actually do.  
“ _Do it!_ ”  
No. I won’t stab myself with this needle. Let me be.  
“ _Then how about that knife, the dagger how about that? Far more efficient-_ “  
No! No, please-  
“ _You don’t have to stab with the dagger. You could slice, run it deep under your skin on your wrists or leg or neck, would that work better? You know it would, you do deserve it after all._ ”I do. I do deserve it.   
I find my hand wandering, almost beyond me or any order I give it, to the knife, bringing it back, raising the blade to my wrist, pressing-NO!  
If I do that, and I cut too deep, I could die. I might deserve the pain, but I cannot die, not with two hobbits under my guard. I set the knife down. I’m trembling, and I feel the sudden need to run, run away, flee the awful voice that speaks terrible truths.  
I look at my wrist. No solid cut, only reddened where I set pressure. I get up, and decide I need to take a walk, even if that leaves my charges vulnerable.  
I walk slowly, breathing deeply, trying to bring calm back to myself. I find myself praying, sort of, although to who I do not know, for aid, for mercy, because what just happened terrifies me.  
Slowly, peace returns, and I feel calm enough to return. I go back, and put away the knife, and neatly set the clothes aside, needle firmly stuck in them.  
I lie down to sleep.  
/  
I wake before sunrise proper. I’m first up. I double check my wrist-no cut that’s noticeable-a thin while line, like a cut from paper. Thank goodness, I don’t think I’d want to explain myself.  
I feel the need for another walk, but on this one, I gather food too, and bring back breakfast. By this time, Merry’s up, and he helps me restart the fire and cook. We eat quietly.  
I slip off again to gather more food, figuring I might as well make the time useful as we can’t travel yet.  
On my way back, I hear conversation: Pippin’s awake.  
When I come into view Pippin cringes from me, setting his hands as if to ward a blow off and whispers, “I’m sorry Gandalf, I’m sorry sorry for running away, sorry-“  
I cut in, concerned and pitying and anxious to assuage his fears. “No, it is I who should be sorry.”  
I set down my bag and kneel before him, holding his gaze softly.  
“I was the one with my cruel words insulted you, blamed you for something you should never be blamed for. It is my fault you felt the need to flee and hide, and thus because of me you gained these wounds,” I gently hold his bandaged arm in my hands to show my point. “No, dear boy, this is my fault, and thus I am so very, terribly sorry.”  
I bow my head, regret and shame making my face flush.  
“I’m not sure how I can fix what I have done but…” I turn and look to the forest, feeling that I can’t ever really make this up.  
“You’ve done a great deal already,” he says gently, and I see guilt in his eyes, for some unknown reason. “You put up with my flight and patiently stayed with me even as I declared hatred of you, you caught me as I fell and let me flail against you, you carried me here and presumable have bandaged me and are trying to sew my clothes back together, which, by the way, I am perfectly capable of doing, and you know it.”  
I do know, I know a lot of his skills, how they were taught to him in childhood before he realized his boyhood. I know how he was raised in childhood, before he realized and I helped him speak up. But none the less, it’s the least I can do, fixing the clothes that by my actions have torn.  
“All I ask now is tolerate what flinching and cringing I might do, and what distrust lingers, and please do not blame me for It again.”  
“Yes, of course,” I say grateful, so grateful he holds me to so few terms and knowing I don’t deserve that mercy.  
“Thank you for putting up with me, and I’m sorry for being troublesome and petulant,” he smiles wryly, and reaches out to my arm, takes it gently.  
“Stubborn boy,” I whisper, splutter out a half-laugh of relief, and hug the lad close, and after a moment, he returns.  
/  
It takes a week for Pippin to stop cringing from my touch fully, and another week yet for him to seek it out, as he often does after nightmares he now suffers. But I am patient. I can wait for forgiveness, even if it is undeserved.


	15. In Sickness and in Health (but This Time, in Sickness)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf POV: Set a month before Loss(.jpeg). Emetophobia Warning, Angst, and Sickfic are the applicable tags.

I wake up early, the room is still dark, to some wet noise, a noise I do not like at all-gagging! Aiwendil is leaning over the other side of the bed, retching and shivering. He’s gotten sick!  
“Aiwendil, sweetheart what happened?” I ask, pressing close to him and leaning over his side of the bed-indeed what remains of his dinner has been cast up onto the floor. I feel both concerned and nauseated.  
He whines and presses back into me, seeking comfort. He retches again, but it comes up empty. I pet his hair, and it seems that his stomach has finished, because he turns into my chest, burrowing like a distressed child. He is indeed distressed, with concern for himself, exhaustion and guilt-why? he’s done nothing wrong- compounding the distress.  
I shush him and hold him, and eventually he stops shivering and relaxes.  
“‘m sorry for wakin’ you,” he murmurs, slurred.  
“No, I don’t mind, you know I need to look after you,” I reassure.  
“I’ll go fetch you some water and a bowl so you can wash your mouth out. Would you like that?”  
He nods against me. I go to leave but he holds on to me with surprising strength.  
“Don’t leave me,” is muffled into my arm.  
“I’ll only be gone a moment,” I gently disentangle myself and fetch water and a bowl he can spit into.  
I come back and prop him up, and give him the water cup.  
“Spit it out at first, rinse your mouth out, then drink,” I bid him, and he does, spitting out his first two mouthfuls into the bowl, and then gulping the rest.  
He looks satisfied, and relaxes again. I smell the sick and realize I need to clean it. So I do, grabbing the bowl and emptying it before I take a rag and use it to scoop most of the sick into it, the rest can be wiped up later. I throw the sick out and return to bed. Aiwendil snuggles up to me, but he’s not distressed.  
“What happened?” I ask again.  
“I’m not sure. I’ve been awake for a while, feeling generally ill but only just now did I throw up,” he responds.  
“Sweetheart, you could have woken me earlier!”  
“I don’t want to disturb you. You look cute when you sleep.”  
I chuckle. “Whether or not I appear cute is not a reason to suffer alone.”  
“Al-right,” he drags the last syllable on to show his reluctance.  
“That’s better,” I say, moving to feel his forehead. Warm…too warm.  
“You’re overheating dear,” I say.  
“No I’m not?” He more asks than states. “I need to be warmer.” He pulls the blankets up and over himself, and curls into a ball.  
I wrap myself around the ailing ball.   
“No you don’t, but I’ll let it go now, because you need to sleep.”  
“Sleep…” he murmurs, and falls into a doze very quickly.  
I follow him quickly enough.  
/  
Somebody is shaking my shoulder gently.  
I splutter out nonsense for a moment as my mouth wakes up, and then I ask, “What is it?”  
“Oh-I’m sorry-no, its…nothing…” Aiwendil says, shame in his voice. There’s a kiss pressed to my temple, a push for sleep emanating from it. I resist the suggested sleep.  
I roll over and face him. “Dear, I would have you tell me what you need.”  
“I…I kind of wanted food but, well, I’m tired and still feeling ill so I hoped…you’d get it?” His eyes are turned up to maximum pity grabbing, wide and sad and pleading.  
“Of course I’ll get it,” I assure, “Do you want anything in particular?”  
“Apple?” He asks plaintively.  
“Of course,” I pet his hair once and get up, and fetch the fruit he desires.  
He happily bites the apple, eating it quickly. Clearly, he was hungry.  
I hear the sounds of footsteps-it must be breakfast time. I need to get up and cook, but if Aiwendil is sick…  
“I ought to go help make breakfast-do you feel up to it?” I ask.  
“No, I don’t want to cook if I’m sick. What if I throw up again in the pan?”  
“You make a good point. Stay here and rest, sleep if you can.” I instruct.  
I get up and make breakfast. After eating, I make sure to forage for extra medicinal herbs, at least those that Aiwendil’s book said would be in season. I couldn’t, alas, find much of anything for overheating but I found plenty for nausea and aches.  
I come back for lunch and find Aiwendil helping with the prep.  
“You’re up! Feeling better?” I ask.  
“Enough to help with lunch prep,” Aiwendil says, continuing to chop vegetables.  
“I’m glad,” I respond.  
He smiles gently, and together we make lunch.  
At first, lunch is a happy affair, and I am glad for that.   
But then, Aiwendil suddenly lurches and covers his mouth with his hand. He suddenly looks queasy.  
I get up and spring for the bowl I used earlier, and get there just in time, kneeling before him just as he gets sick.  
“Oh no!” Cries Pippin, standing and going to rub Aiwendil’s back.  
The Maia himself shudders and retches, emptily. I hear a soft whine escape him, and he presses his forehead to my own, and closes his eyes.  
“It’s alright, it’s alright,” I soothe.  
“-Mr. Radagast,” finishes Sam, and I realized we had accidentally chorused in our attempts at soothing.  
He opens his eyes, looks at me, and leans in for what I realize is a kiss.  
“Let’s get your mouth rinsed before you put it anywhere,” I suggest gently, but Aiwendil still looks slightly embarrassed.   
I empty out the bowl I still hold, and fetch him some water. I put my arm around him as he rinses and spits and then drinks.   
“There you go,” I reassure, and to try lower his embarrassment I kiss his cheek gently, but he turns and takes me so intensely I reel a moment, instinctively return for a moment, realize we have company and break away.   
“Not here, not right now,” I say, as gently as possible, but he still manages to look crushed.  
I rise and turn to the hobbits, desperately hoping that I can avoid embarrassment. Incredibly, they don’t appear disgusted or very shocked; indeed what I register is a mild surprise, as if they expected this to happen but not just now.  
“How about you all forage for food-remember the herbs I time to to focus on-and leave the clean up to us” I suggest.  
They raise their eyebrows in doubt but leave.  
Aiwendil takes no time in standing up, slightly unsteadily, and coming to me, setting his chin on my shoulder from behind me and projecting a _powerful_ need for touch, and so I gently guide us both to our room, and give him what he wants.  
/  
I stir after he’s fallen asleep to do the washing up. It doesn’t take very long, even though I’m alone, and I am grateful.  
/  
Shortly before dinner, Aiwendil wakes with a soft groan.  
“What’s wrong?” I ask, coming to him.  
“I’m...lightheaded and I ache.”  
“Oh, I’m sorry, do you want me to fetch you something for that?”  
“Yes, please,” he replies.  
I fetch him the proper tea for the aches and give it to him, and obediently he drinks it. I feel his forehead; his fever is back.  
“You overheat too-I’ll get you something for that.”  
So I do, fetching the bitter herbs that he’s supposed to chew. He does chew them, pulling almost comedic faces as he does.  
“Do you wish to have dinner with us?”  
I ask.  
“No, no, I’m sorry, but I just need to sleep this off.”  
/  
His fever, quelled temporarily by the herbs, comes back in vengeance later that night. He wakes often through the night, often shivering and hiding under the blankets or sprawling over the covers, always far too warm to make any sort of good bedfellow but I wake and stay with him, getting cool, damp rags to his forehead and neck, and soothing him back to sleep, often using my Power.  
/  
Unfortunately, the next few days are little different. In the day his fever lessens slightly, giving some clarity to him, and this is the few times I can trust him to eat or drink.   
He barely eats, and sleeps little, despite my extensive use of Power to keep him asleep so he can rest, but the fever keeps it’s talons in him, and I expend much Power to him. I order the hobbits to get as much herbs as they can, obviously leaving some to regrow, forget gathering food, but it’s never enough, and Aiwendil’s fever only gets worse and worse, until he rarely knows where he is, or who I am, that we are no longer in Valinor, that so much has changed.  
In my desperation, I try to heal him directly with Power, a trying process I rarely use. He responds but not for long, and one night, I lie awake, exhausted beyond measure but unable to sleep because I’m so incredibly anxious he’ll die, and how gaunt he seems, how pale and sweaty he is, and suddenly I feel him, he is near death his fever is killing him, and I send forth all my strength in Power, far beyond all limits set, nearly destroying my body, yanking him from death and sending him into a deep deep sleep. I crash and pass out cold almost as soon as I finish.  
He sleeps for days, not waking, but I barely rest or eat, sleeping barely a few hours a day and eating a diet similar to what I had in Orthanc because I’m just so worried that my stomach is sick and turbulent, and I don’t trust it with food.  
His fever stays high and I keep applying salves or letting herb laced steam into his room to quell it, and slowly slowly it goes down, but never until he is without issue.  
Food runs thin at about the weeks mark and I am forced between choosing herbs that could save my-my- what is he to me but all? My rock and anchor and greatest companion, dearer to me than almost all the world... and feeding those I must protect. Instead, I go with even less food, and I tell them to gather more food, but often I still skip meals and I start to feel awful and sick from exhaustion and hunger and stress.  
/  
But one day, Aiwendil wakes. I sense it immediately, all my thought bent to him. He has clarity, he _knows_ , and I’m there, bending over him and feeling his forehead-blissfully cool, but the fever has not fully broken.  
“How are you?” I ask, relief, strong overwhelming relief flowing through me.  
“I am better that I was, although I am still sick,” he says after a moment, “ _thank you_.”  
He pulls me down into a hug and I clutch to him as he to me, and I, though about to faint, feel so so grateful that Aiwendil is alive and better and in my arms.  
But he stiffens, and I step back slightly-is he going to get sick?  
He looks up at me, eyes wide with worry.  
“Oh, sweetheart!” He cries, the rarely used pet name escaping him in his worry. “You’re in an awful state-you’ve barely slept, you’re starving, you’re thirsty, most of your Power is spent- what have you done in your care of me?!”  
“What I must,” I reply, feeling full on the truths of what he described.   
I sway dangerously, and I am pulled to being lying down, and he curls tightly around me.  
“Do not break yourself to heal me!”  
“I...am not broken yet...” I all but mutter, feeling that if I lie here for one more second I will fall asleep.  
“You very nearly are,” he refutes, “and now let me care for you. Sleep, Olórin, sleep.”  
Almost instantaneously, I do.  
/  
I awake in a morning, even though it was not lunch when Aiwendil woke.  
I am starving, and my stomach is so painful I can barely move. I groan piteously, over and over and Aiwendil is there, his face still slightly haggard from his illness but he looks well enough to be up.  
He shushes me, pets my hair, and orders for food, and soon there’s some mushed up fruit, probably prepared for me before I woke, and he spoons it to me and I eat greedily.   
I fall asleep again soon after I finish eating.  
/  
When I wake, hungry but feeling refreshed and far better, Aiwendil is sleeping next to me.  
He stirs and looks at me, as if I’ve defied some expectations of his.  
“You’re awake,” he states.  
“Yes.”  
“Do you remember waking before?”  
“Like when you fed me?” I’m confused.  
“It’s been a day since you last ate, but you’ve come to some consciousness after that, but you were troubled, kept reaching for me, calling for me, as if you were in a troubling half dream.”  
I remember dreams of losing him, but not waking during them.  
I state that to him, and he nods.  
“Well, you’re still not back to full health. Your Power certainly isn’t back, and you really need to eat. I am going to hold you bed-bound for today, so you can rest and eat. But I also need to rest, so together we shall take a day together.”  
I want to object, but I don’t have it in me. I nod and curl closer to him.  
Sam, ever the caretaker, volunteers to take care of us as we rest, but largely we’re alone, blissfully snuggled up with each other, sleeping on and off and reveling in each other’s company and gentle touch.  
/  
By weeks end, we’re both alright, perhaps a bit tired or easily worn or weak limbed, but we’re alright. It was a hard path to recovery, but together we’ve made it.


	16. I Will Not Let Harm Befall Thee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf POV: The end of this chapter is the night before the events of Loss(.jpeg). The applicable tags are Panic Attacks, Angst and H/C, Sexual Violence, Nightmares, Suicide Attempt, Self-Harm, Guilt, Explicit Sexual Content and Telepathy.  
> This is long and dark, please heed the tags!

I’m standing under a tree near our garden, but as I look up I’m met with a shock-Pippin, battered and bloody, as he was the day I found him after I had accidentally wounded him, sits in the tree, not afraid or crying but enraged.   
“I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!” He chants, and fear and guilt rush back, and I stumble, shocked and I cannot speak, and perhaps the leery voice from that night where I tried to repair the damage dealt was right, where is a blade, I must have one, would my blood be enough-?  
A fist strikes my hip, and as I twist with the strike another, bigger and awful strikes my face so I am felled without grace or dignity.  
“HOW DARE YOU!? You stand there and do not help him! You think you care for him? I know your mind and you do not care, you vile thing!” A sneering, awful, familiar voice and oh no no no no it’s Aiwendil and he knows my crime and he hates me too I have lost everything, I have no purpose, why do I live-  
I am being turned over roughly, so I rest on my hands and knees and NO not again! Not this...  
“I know what you want, and I will give it to you,” Aiwendil assures, his voice cold and far lower than normal, too low, “but first, you must be punished.”  
I’m rooted where I am and my robe is lifted quickly but no one objects, no one cares at all and my underclothes are roughly torn down me and he’s there and-  
I snap up, sitting on a soft surface-a bed-in a room, Aiwendil’s room. He must have brought me here after...  
I start crying, openly, because I just do not care.  
I move to slip away and perhaps find one of his knives, to slip off into the night and never return, but before I’m even out of the bed a hand rests on my shoulder.  
“What’s wrong?” Aiwendil asks, his voice more normal if mildly concerned.  
I’m scared out of my wits and I fall head first off the bed and by some miracle I do not break my head, instead I roll to a crouch and I spring up, run to the kitchen, grope for a knife and seize it, and flee.  
My legs, however, are weak, weak with tiredness and I still recover from that...that...illness? and they shake beneath me but I must keep going, I must!  
But I am slow, slower than the freshly traitorous Maia, I cannot even bear to think his name, and I hear his footsteps after me, and so I halt, and pose the knife over my heart, and start the plunge, and it pricks me, for better it is to die by my hand that it is by an enemy-  
“NO! NO! OLÓRIN!” He shrieks, emotion cracking his voice, and he sprints forward, and takes my wrist into a tight grip and tries to wrestle my salvation away.  
I fight, grappling hands tearing at his skin and clothes, but he is stronger than I in my weakness, and soon he wields the knife, snatching it from me by the blade, grunting, before holding it by the handle and holding it at his side.  
“What on earth! By _Herinya Yavanna!_ ” He rambles, shocked, staring at me.  
Clearly, he expected me to be more docile.  
“If death by my own hand is a mercy you will not give, can you at least kill me swiftly?” I negotiate.  
“WHAT?!” He shrieks again, eyes going even wider. “Why would I ever raise a weapon against you?! Let ALONE KILL YOU?!”  
“Because you know what I have done, and because you know I only deserve death, and because you promised me as much,” I say blandly.  
“What? No, no, you’re making no sense! What are you going on about?”  
“You know why I am nothing,” I assert.  
“You’re-youre-your worth is so much, you are so dear to me! Why do you say you are naught?! You are closer to all than naught!”  
His assertions ring hollow in my heart, and when he sees I do not believe his lies he steps forward, his knife hand starting to swing up and-  
I stumble back, suddenly fearing death, and in my haste I fall heavily, vulnerable to any assault and peering up at him.  
“Oh-“ he swears vibrantly in Valarin, and tosses the knife behind himself, “I forgot this was in my hand! I’m so sorry!”  
I look at him, because guilt has indeed entered his heart but no, it must be because he took away his only weapon from himself.  
He steps towards me, hands reaching for me, probably for my neck and I hold my hand out, shuffle uselessly backwards, and cry desperately, “No! No please! Come no closer!”  
He stops where he is but does not drop his hands.  
“I won’t hurt you, and I will not let you hurt yourself,” he says, determined.  
“How do I know you shall not-touch-me as you did?” I ask bitterly.  
“W-what? I do not remember ever laying a harmful hand on you, Olórin please-“  
He pauses, confused, but speaks again.  
“You’ve had a nightmare,” he ascertains, his facial expression changing from one of confusion bordering hopelessness to realization.  
“I have not!” I object, how dare he brush what he has done away how dare-  
“I know you don’t believe me, but here, perhaps...yes, read my thoughts and memories, see me.”  
His hand is held loosely out to me, and I hesitantly take his wrist in an unsteady grip, and find the pulse there, the most impersonal way of reading another’s mind.  
I try to center myself, and I jump unsteadily into his mind.  
He reels from my graceless entrance but recovers quickly.  
His mind is alight, awake despite the late hour, and it is flooded with concern and fear and worry, worry for a loved one, worry for one you need by your side, and above all, he feels love, tenuous, as if this love was about to be ripped from him.  
I realize he feels this for...me. Me! But... what just happened...his cold rage for me, where is that? What of his words to me earlier?  
I dive into his memories, and he does not stop me, lets me in.  
I scan what happened in the night, then evening, and then afternoon, and then morning, and then the day previous, and the day before that, but there is no incident that matches my memory, but my memory grows faint, airy, like...a passing dream.  
“There you go,” he says gently, out loud, and I start from his mind.  
Through his distress he smiles gently, but I feel shocked and crushed and like the world has fallen atop myself.  
Was it truly a dream? Was it truly? It gave me such distress...but it grows fainter still as my awful memories have not, and I know it must be. Have I fled, raised a knife against myself, spoken rudely to Aiwendil and fought him, for nothing? Was his hand cut for nothing? My already muddled emotions are compounded by grief and guilt as I realize that he was injured by blade in defense of myself, and from myself!  
I’m shaking harder, tears streaming from my unblinking eyes, and I realize I’m hunched over and curled into myself.  
I’m being shushed gently. “Just breathe, you’re safe,” Aiwendil whispers, and I realize that he’s crouched to my level but does not touch me, he hovers awkwardly in front of me.  
I realize I still have his wrist so I tug him closer to me, even though I am unworthy of him, and he embraces me and he presses his nose to what skin he finds and I can tell he projects calm and relief on purpose.  
I feel my back get damp where Aiwendil’s hand touches me and I can tell his hand hurts from hugging me so I wiggle from him and hang my head in shame because how could I ever deserve this Maia who comforts me despite his own injuries and emotions?  
He looks at me, concerned, and tenderly kisses me, and I sigh.  
“You are far worthy of me, dearest,” he murmurs, and I kiss him back.  
“What’s going on here?” Asks a voice-Pippin! What’s he doing up?  
I stand up.  
“Pippin, go back to bed,” I order.  
“What? No!” He defies. “We heard screaming, Gandalf, it seemed like you were in-like you were going to-to die! I’ve never heard Radagast scream that way!”  
“Gandalf, are you alright?” Asks Merry gently, and he and Samwise step into my sight.  
I realize Pippin has accidentally pinned me in a corner. Either I lie, and make up some other story, or I tell the truth, the truth which I am now ashamed of and would panic the hobbits.  
In desperation I turn to Aiwendil and look at him pleadingly. He seems, somehow, to understand my question. His voice manifests within my mind, he thought-sends: _Tell the truth, Olórin, for they will find out either way._  
I, however, do not have the courage to admit outright that I tried to stab myself.  
“Well...death...was an idea in my mind...and well I tried to...get it but Aiwendil rightfully fought against me, kept me alive.”  
A stunned silence follows as everyone processes my words. Then Pippin, his eyes keen in the dark, says haltingly, “There’s a hole in your robe.”   
He reaches out and touches it gingerly, but still the wound stings and I flinch. He looks shrewdly at me before he sticks his finger in his mouth.  
“That’s blood!” He says, revolted. “That’s a wound, fresh, bleeding...and that hole in your robe looks like an even cut... like it was made by... a... knife...” He trails off, horror mounting on his face as he teases out what I’ve done.  
“NO! I won’t let you!” He cries, grieved, and springs at me and lands dangling from my neck by his arms that wrapped around me. The force of his launch knocks me over and I fall on my back, and he ends up lying on top of me, head pillowed at my collar.  
I sense how worried he is and hold my arms where he can see them and say gently, “I don’t have a knife anymore, don’t worry. I won’t try it again.”  
He only snuggles closer to me, getting himself comfortable as if he expects to stay here all night. I find the weight comforting, and I wrap my arms around him, securing him there. I feel exhausted, and realize I’ll probably fall asleep here if I’m not given leave to go back to bed.  
Merry and Sam step forth and lie down close; sentinels. Merry chooses to lie near my arm and Sam curls up near my leg. I get the distinct impression that they’re not going to let me move.  
“Don’t fall asleep, you need to bandage your chest,” reminds Aiwendil.  
I reflect on the wound and it doesn’t really need to be bandaged, it bleeds but slow enough to not trouble me.  
“It can wait til morning,” I murmur, “and besides, I don’t think I’ll be allowed up.”  
“‘E’s not movin,” confirms Sam, and I feel Pippin nod against me.  
Aiwendil sighs but acquiesces.   
“I’ll go fetch a blanket then, I don’t want you to freeze out here.”  
“See to your hand first, sweetheart,” I say, before guilt spurs me to say, “I’m sorry about all this.”  
“I’d sooner have no hand here than have you take your own life,” he assures, but I hate that idea.  
“Don’t say that,” I groan, “please don’t.”  
“Sorry, but the sentiment remains,” he says shortly before walking off.  
I start to fall into a doze, and barely register Aiwendil’s return.   
He gently tucks the blanket around us, but before he fully straightens up I take his injured hand and kiss it tenderly, doing my best in my exhaustion to heal it with my Power.  
He merely smooths back my hair and sets gentle fingers to my temple, lulling me to sleep.  
/  
I wake up where I fell asleep. There’s no pressure on my chest. I’m on my side, and wrapped tightly around Pippin, who is curled tightly and holds his thumb near his mouth, like a young child.  
I hold him with one arm to my chest, as if to protect or warm him.  
Merry cocoons him, facing towards us and he arcs his body around so that his head is near my arm and his feet rest near my stomach.  
Samwise, snoring gently, had taken my right leg seemingly for his own.  
Slowly I realize I am being held, Aiwendil holding an arm around me as he sleeps diagonal so as to not disturb Sam.  
I guess I cannot move, so I lie there, silent, grateful I’m alive and that they’re alive and with me.  
They are my...family after all. A family can be two Maiar and three largely adult hobbits.  
I have children after all! Three boys, perhaps not from my body but I care for them as a father none the less.  
/  
Normally, Aiwendil gives me a day or two after a particularly bad nightmare to let it settle and fade before asking how it happened and how he can help it not happen again.  
But perhaps it is because I had such a drastic reaction that he corners me the afternoon after that night.  
“What did you dream of last night? I only got flashes of it when you read my mind,” he asks.  
“It might be better if I show you,” I say, feeling not up to explaining it verbally.   
“Alright.”  
I recall what I can to my mind, take several breaths to prepare myself, and set my forehead against his, so we look as if we kissed. My breath hitches at the thought.  
I refocus my mind and set the dream at the forefront.   
I feel him scan it, watch it as an observer.  
His horror spikes almost immediately, and it grows, with threads of incredulity and confusion winding in.  
By the time he finishes, he looks awful and I quickly regret showing him.  
I draw him close to me and he just flops on to me, loose with shock that now overwhelms him.  
He tenses, both in face and body and his breathing becomes frightened, swift and shallow, and I feel panic rise up in him, and so I pull him closer and pet his hair, running my fingers though it, and murmur gently until his panic subsided and he breathes more naturally.  
He pulls back and looks at me, clearly still worried.  
“Do-do you think I’d really do that?” He asks, whispering.  
“No, no, of course not! It is a nightmare, they are rarely realistic at all.” I reassure.  
“But this dream did have some basis or frame in reality, I could tell.”  
“It did, partially... Saruman, and partially an incident that happened between fleeing him and getting to you,” I explain.  
“Do...you want to talk about said incident?” He asks gently, taking my hand.  
“It is a sensitive thing for me but...”  
“You do not have to tell just to satisfy my curiosity,” he bids.  
“But I think I ought to. Could I show you like I did just now? By mouth it would take a while.”  
“Of course.”  
I pull forth those days from my mind and set them forward, and set us physically up, but this time I decide to set the pace of telling.  
I start out with Pippin telling what happened, with my own inner monologue getting louder and louder and more self-incriminating until I voice it aloud and ruin the day.  
“You...said all that out loud accidentally?” Questions Aiwendil, looking at me with curious eyes.  
“Yes, regrettably.”  
“And you meant it for yourself? Oh goodness, you feel terrible about it! I’m sure you did your best to protect him, from what you’ve told me you were brave to fight his taking at all!”  
“I-thank you!” I say, shocked, no counter argument coming to mind.  
I continue, going over Pippin’s flight, Merry’s righteous anger, our first searching and the failed attempt to retrieve Pippin. I show Aiwendil the first panic I had, and then my heavy calls to make camp and call when a hard stop would be.   
I show him the next morning, the quiet, mournful search and then the scream.  
Aiwendil jolts when Pippin screams in the memory, and I have to reset our positions.  
I show how we ran towards the scream, how I routed us to crying, found Pippin’s blood on the ground and then got impeded by hedges, how his crying cut off as we got near and how we finally find him.  
Aiwendil starts to make sense of my context and of my dream as he sees Pippin up in that tree, bloody but scared as he wasn’t in the dream.  
I show the conversation we had, how I continued to hurt Pippin, and how, rightfully, I hate myself for it.  
Aiwendil gasps when that truth enters my head.  
“No-don’t hate yourself, _please,_ ” he begs, now disrupting us again to hold on to me, almost sitting in my lap, and suddenly a pulse, incredibly strong hits me from Aiwendil and it’s _love, pure love_ , and I reel before my own heart responds and I feel the same for him and and I have for _millennia, I love him dearly, more than I can ever understand, he is my love and dearest and beloved-_  
He looks at me, awed and shocked and incredulous and ecstatic and loving, and we latch on to each other and kiss like it’s our last chance to properly kiss.  
I reluctantly part to breathe.  
“I love you,” I whisper, and even though it defies all wisdom I feel saying that is the biggest risk of my life.  
“I love you,” he replies, and I think I might just blow to bits with joy.  
Instead I crash into him and pull as close to him as I can and I burrow my face in his shoulder and just laugh giddily.  
I realize that I am now sitting in his lap and I feel a blush spread across my cheeks at the intimacy of it. I pull my face from his shoulder.  
“So...we are lovers now?” Aiwendil asks.  
“Yes-please yes, I’ve wanted to be your lover since we first kissed here,” I ramble.  
“Thank goodness,” he laughs, “if you had said no...that might have ended me!”  
“I wouldn’t say no for anything, not when I have needed to be yours for years,” I say, taking his hand and holding it to my chest.  
“But how can you be mine if I am yours?” He asks, eyes wide.  
“We must be each others, then,” I reason, and kiss him, and we kiss, one of his hands over my heart and the other around the back of my neck, and my hands rest over his hand over my chest and on his upper back. We kiss and the world falls away and all I know is him, and I wish this could go on forever, but...weren’t we doing something?  
“Forget it love,” Aiwendil murmurs against me.  
“It...what were we doing?” I wonder.  
“Don’t worry about it,” he coaxes, and kisses me, but I don’t respond.  
“What’s wrong?” He asks, looking at me in a sort of dazed confusion.  
“While I really don’t want to stop...this,” I gesture vaguely, “what we were doing was important...whatever it was.”  
“We can always continue this later,” I add.  
“Yes, you’re right, but what were we doing?”  
“I was showing you something?”  
“Yes! You were showing me memories, and you got some self loathing in there and I got all worried.” Aiwendil nods, remembering.  
I guide us back to the position best for memory sharing and I recall where I was in the memory.  
I show Aiwendil my despair, and how Pippin, by a hiccup, manages to fall into a desperate struggle to stay in the tree, how he falls and I catch him and he strikes me, bruises my chest but I don’t mind.  
I show him that I hug the lad, how eventually, he gives in and finally seeks the comfort he needs, how he trusts me, although I have not earned it, and sleeps on my shoulder.  
I show him that I get back to camp, and bathe Pippin’s wounds and slowly bandage them.  
I hesitate, and Aiwendil notices.  
“What happens next? Is it...bad?”  
“I-I’ll show you.”  
So I do, showing my attempts to fix the torn clothing, and then, the leery voice, and how I took the knife and raised it to my wrist but in the instant before I show how I made no serious wound Aiwendil springs up and starts backing away, panicked.  
“No, no, no no!” He cries. “Not again!”  
I stand up, worried, and reach for him.   
“NO! Don’t touch me!” He cries, shying from me and retreating into a corner, hands in his hair.  
“Sweetheart, that is in the past, I’m safe! I’m here, look at me!” I coax.  
“You were suffering, Olórin, and I couldn’t help you,” he whispers.  
“You tried to hurt yourself, and I couldn’t stop you, you tried to _kill yourself and I couldn’t save you!_ ” He’s screaming by then end of it, and I fall into a seat, shocked.  
“THAT HURTS ME!” He shrieks, and I feel my worry turn to anxiety, and all I can say is, “I’m sorry!”  
“You would have died, died painfully and slowly, and left the hobbits our children to die alone without help-“  
“I’m sorry!” I call again.  
“And I would have known, known and it would have broken me, ended me! You could have killed us all Olórin how could you!?”  
“I’M SORRY!” I scream, anxiety morphing to panic that starts in my stomach and courses up to my heart and my mind and I scream without words a high pitched keening thing, slamming my head to the table and covering my head with my hands and I clutch at my hair and pull because only pain can ground me and I keep whimpering loudly, barely breathing at all and I shake and cry and bawl.  
Aiwendil looms over me and he’s going to hit me he hates me and I shriek again but I find my voice, and I beg, beg, saying, “Please don’t hurt me please don’t hate me please I’ll do anything anything please just tell me you don’t hate me just tell me...”   
The world is going fuzzy and I trail off, my vision is shrinking and all dims, even my panic. I get up and the world violently swerves and spins, and I blink, confused.  
I think Aiwendil speaks but I can’t quite tell what, until I dimly register, “Breathe Olórin,” But what does that...mean? I feel myself sway gently.  
“Olórin BREATHE!” He says with more conviction but what does he mean...?  
I sway, or does the world move? What’s going on?  
I feel light, so very light, and the world moves up, the floor flies for my head and somebody yells and I hit my head and all goes black.  
/  
“Please Olórin, wake up, come back even if you hate me...even if you are near d-death...”  
I wake up. Aiwendil, upside down, is bending over me, looking terribly worried. I realize my head is pillowed on something, Aiwendil’s thighs-he kneels above me, and holds me on his lap.  
“Oh, Olórin you’re awake! Thank goodness!” He kisses me but I can’t respond. My face just will not move. I feel stunned, in a trance, like I am not in control of my body at all.  
I feel the panic from before rise up again, and my breathing starts to suffer for it.  
“Oh no I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that, oh I’ve made you panic again...”  
He trails off and looks away, and I sense he feels unworthy.  
I try to move, even just rock my head or move my hand to his leg, but even throwing forth all my strength I can only twitch a fingertip or blink slowly.  
Panic is replaced by dread, what if I can’t move again? Would Aiwendil even care for me anymore? Would he love one who cannot move?  
“I am going to kiss you again,” Aiwendil says urgently, “and please if you still love me kiss me back, but even if you will not I must do this, even if it be our last, I must. I am sorry...”  
He kisses me, urgently, and with all my will I get my lips to move weakly against his.  
He pulls away and looks like he restrains hope.  
“Did you kiss me? Please, did you? No, no, it was a fancy of my own, my own selfishness overriding my very senses...”  
“You...did not kiss me...” he says softly, “oh...no, I should expect this, I’ve been awful, just dreadful! This is what I deserve...”  
A tear wells up in my eye because no! No please he does not deserve this at all, I did kiss him he just did not feel it!  
I try to project, thought send him that his words are false, that I love him dearly but he will not meet my eye and I cannot touch him properly.  
I give it up. But then, he does look at me, and I frantically try to send my love but he does not or will not hear me.  
He sees the tear and desperation in my eyes and he starts to cry.  
“I’m sorry!” He wails, and falls to his hands above me, so that he covers me entirely. His now lowered torso forces my head back to the floor, and the impact hurts. Another tear joins with the first and slides down my cheek to my ear. I gasp involuntarily.  
Aiwendil shakes above me, and I try again to move, to hug him, to kiss him, and so I realize that his hands are planted near mine, and so slowly, achingly slow I take his wrists into a weak but ever firmer grasp, until he looks at me with hopeless eyes.  
“No-I’m sorry-here,” he pushes himself up, “now, I am going to take you to our, no. My bed.” He hiccups.  
“Just to hold you one last time. Please, let me have this.”  
He slowly drags me up, until I stand loosely in his arms. I manage to maneuver my head to the crook of his shoulder and stay there as he carries me to our bed.  
He lets me down gently, and crawls towards me, and he just holds me as he said he would. He burrows into the back of my neck and I shiver.  
“Once you can, obviously you can leave. I won’t stop you.” He says listlessly, without hope.  
“Take the children take it all, I don’t mind.” His voice is awful, forceably flat and numb but I can tell he is grieving terribly, perhaps enough to...No, no, please anyone keep him from the fate I wanted for myself last night!  
I start to cry, at first just tears sliding down my face but finally my lungs let me wail and so I do, wailing loudly and desperately and boiling tears leave me.  
“It’s alright, you can leave!” He reassures me, but I just cry harder, curling into a ball.  
“Do you want me to help you up? Help you pack?” He asks, but I finally get my voice and I nigh scream, “NO! OH PLEASE DO NOT MAKE ME LEAVE!”  
“Do not be polite just for me! I know you wish to leave, so just do so!” He bids me voice rising, sad and upset, and oh no he wants me gone, doesn’t he?  
“Please! Not leaving, I know you hate me and want me gone but please oh please let me stay!” I wail.  
“I do not hate you! Nay, I love you enough to let you go, so you may, but if you will, do so now, if I can indeed ask anything of you.”  
“No! I will not go! Don’t you understand!?” I yell, frustration mixing with grief and desperation, “I love you! I would die if I left you!”  
I feel shock pour off him.  
“You...do not hate me? You want to stay here?” He asks, infinitely hesitant.  
“YES! Finally! You understand! I would only go if you want me gone, and then...” I hold my breath, because what if he does want me gone? Being made to leave would break me utterly, I would die, and never take form again.  
“Then please, please please stay here, oh I cannot let you go it would kill me-“  
I, by enormous effort, roll over to face him, grab his face roughly, and kiss him with all the frustration and desperation and love I have.  
He does not respond. I break off, and ask, “Do you not want this?”  
“I do,” he says, “but do you?”  
I groan in frustration and kiss him again, now rolling again to be on top of him, nearly pinning him down.  
He flips me over, and pressing my hands into the pillows with his own he bears down on me, taking my kiss without mercy and I think he _growls a bit_ and oh, _oh goodness oh heaven and sky_...It’s _delicious_. He presses sharp kisses down my neck-one of them feels like it could make a mark, oh _oh I’m his and he’s marked me, that’s...amazing, amazingly potent._  
He returns to my lips with renewed vigor and I press my hips into him, and I moan but for entirely different reasons than earlier.  
I wiggle my hands out and grab the back of his neck, so that he is pressed into me.  
Suddenly he drags his hips down and into and over mine and instinctively I meet it, thrusting up, because that’s _beautiful, oh, more_ and we keep doing that, getting more coordinated until we move together.  
I arch my back, panting, just to deal with what I’m feeling and Aiwendil takes the opportunity to unbutton my robes-how is he functioning?-and tear them down until they rest at my hips, before he dives for my collarbone and gently bites it and I make a rather embarrassing noise and nip his neck, and he groans and he does it again to my collar and I make more noises and I can’t stop until he kisses me again and swallows my cries.  
I fumble with his robes before I get them down and finally skin to skin, I press up and accidentally unseat him, and I wind up over him.  
He rebels and flips me over again, without grace and I land heavily under him, he goes after the other side of my collarbone aggressively and it’s wonderful but then no no too aggressive and I flinch and cringe and tense.  
Aiwendil pauses, and looks to me, worry in his face.  
“Shh, shh, I’m sorry,” he kisses my forehead and it’s tender, gentle, “I’ll give you a moment.”  
I breathe, and reassure myself that I’m safe, safe.  
I’m alright.  
“Continue?” He asks.  
“Please,” I say, kissing him.  
He kisses gently, letting me start the pace, but then he bites my lower lip and _oh, oh!_ I flip him over and pin his shoulders down and drag down my hips.  
He looks almost shocked, but I kiss him again and he does it again and I moan and bite his and he almost whines and presses eagerly to me.  
I roll over, feeling the urgency to stay on top fading, and feeling that under is better I let Aiwendil take over.  
We continue, pressing hips and groins and lips together until I feel tenseness building and I make a small noise, and he knows what to do.  
He kisses along my neck and sometimes applies suction and I arch up seeking skin and I’m nearly done and he presses one more time, deeply and I’m done! He kisses me and for an eternal instant it’s glorious and bliss.  
I fall back down from the force of it and I feel that he finishes too, by his choked off groan and his stopping, and his own collapse on to me. We kiss again, urgent but with nothing behind it. Our kiss slows until it is gentle and unhurried, and there is a few inches of space between us.  
I peck him, and we break apart, both still gasping slightly.  
I realize we’ve made a mess and I shift my hips uncontrollably. Forgoing rules on superfluous Power usage, I use my Power to remove the mess our joy brought.  
For a while, we just look at each other. He looks slightly sweaty, his hair is tussled and messy, and his eyes are the sort of glazed joy that only comes in moments like this.   
I realize I love him not only for his heart and soul, how he acts and behaves and speaks; but for his body too, how he looks, especially in times like this where he looks...delicious, although not in the way one would apply the word for food, rather another way I do not have words to describe; heady and potent, it tells of smirks and rough kisses and sly touches after wine.  
Then, breaking my reverie, I pull him down on top of me and burrow into his shoulder, relief catching up to me and a few tears come to my eyes, and my throat takes the opportunity to make a painful lump.  
“Thank you-for k-h-keeping me,” I splutter out, crying openly and so relieved.  
“No, thank you for still keeping me, after what I did just now,” he refutes ever so gently. He kisses me.  
I feel confused. What did he do?  
“What, kiss my wits from me? That’s not a bad thing. I loved it, you heard me.”  
He rolls off me and lies beside me, looking at me openly. He takes my hand.  
“No, not that, although I am so grateful you will yet have me for that,” he chuckles, nervous. “What I refer to is the...bout of panic you had before that.”  
I remember panicking badly, screaming, fainting, Aiwendil’s monologue and being taken to bed and having to smack him upside the head with my love to get him to see it.  
“But that wasn’t your fault?” I more ask than say.  
“It was, dear, because it was my words that struck that panic into you,” he explains, “and don’t deny it, I heard your apologies-unnecessarily made-and your pleas for me to leave you unharmed and not hated. You panicked because I hurt you.”  
I pause for a moment, thinking up counter arguments.  
“While...yes, your words did indeed spark a panic in me, your words were both correct and prompted by my actions, so ultimately, it is my fault.”  
“What? No, I should not have reacted by lashing out and pointing out the flaws of your actions! I blamed you for your own hurt and told you that actions you never took hurt me!”  
“While yes, perhaps you could have reacted in a calmer manner, your reaction, I realize now, was born from the fear and concern you felt last night, the fear of losing me. I ought to have known better than to have shown you that so soon after last night.”  
“Oh, I’ve scared you off sharing with me!” He cries, regretfully. “Oh, I’m sorry, I know I oughtn’t ask but do you think you could-“  
“You haven’t scared me from trust, no! What I worry about is making you worry like that again, because it hurt you, you said as much! Don’t deny it.”  
“I-yes, the helplessness I felt watching you do that to yourself did sting, but that doesn’t mean I get to lash out at you like that.”  
Oh. That’s an argument I can’t counter. I flounder, searching for a way to take guilt from him.  
“Well, um, no I guess it doesn’t, but you also don’t have to suppress all reaction, especially for pain, just for me! I need to know when you’re hurting, alright?”  
“But me showing pain only worries you! Me showing my pain made you panic!”  
“When you do it like you did earlier, yes, it does make me panic,” I concede, “but please tell me when you are hurting! If you can, don’t lash out like that but please please tell me!”   
“I-I’ll tell you.” He says heavily.  
I kiss him gently, and in the darkening room he smiles.  
We fall silent for a while, and I snuggle into him, sighing.  
“Hey,” I say softly after a while, still feeling some tension from our earlier argument, “I’m sorry for making you feel upset and helpless.”  
“Oh sweetheart, I have something far greater to apologize to you for, don’t you apologize to me,” he sighs.  
“What do you mean?”   
“Olórin, I made you panic so acutely and so deeply that you collapsed! And then when you came to consciousness you were stunned for several minutes!” He cries, grief stricken. “I am...so sorry!”  
I am given pause by his grief, so raw and guilt laden. It’s a bit too near to my memory.  
To give myself a moment, I sit up. My head protests, and Aiwendil sits up with me.  
I realize I am in similar shoes to Pippin, ironically from the very memories I just showed Aiwendil.  
“I forgive you, Aiwendil dearest. You have suffered enough for your mistake.”  
“Have I though?” Bitterness stains his voice, and he has never implied anything more wrong.  
“Yes! I heard you, I understand your words! You thought I hated you, that I would leave you, and take the hobbits and your things too! I have reason to think that you thought I was is bad health, or even dying from when I hit my head!”  
“I...yes, for a moment when you collapsed I thought your body had failed entirely, that you were dead. I was frantic, and only found out you were not in bad health when you came to consciousness quickly. You were only out for a minute or so,” he explains.  
“See?” I prompt. “You thought I had died! Isn’t that punishment enough? Isn’t the thought of your lover leaving you, taking what you have, destroying the life you have for yourself, painful enough? Isn’t it awful to think, ‘these are the last hours with my lover’? Do you not feel enough pain?”  
“I-it was painful-is painful-but I still think that external punishment is in order, or at least is not out of line.”  
I blink, shocked. Was this how I seemed to Pippin those first days after I hurt him?   
“Well what would you have me do? Hit you? Take away dinner and send you to bed? Spank you as a naughty child?” I ask, not a little incredulous and sarcastic.  
Aiwendil flushes brightly.  
“I-what? No! Not like that!” He objects.   
A short pause.  
“Although I might deserve it.” He mutters, clearly trying to say it only to himself.  
“No you don’t,” I let my voice get stern, “I will not hit you. I will not purposely hurt you. I would rather be hit than hit you.”  
“But-“  
“No! This is a rule I will not bend or break!”  
“Please?”   
I let out a sighing groan.   
“Show me where you ought to hurt.” I say, flatly.  
He raises his hand to head height, palm facing to his cheek. I realize his intent as soon as his hand begins to swiftly close the distance to his face.  
I seize his wrist and set his hand over my heart, an affirmation of my willingness to put myself between what harms him and himself, even if it is himself.  
I think I understand what he is doing. He doesn’t want to physically hurt himself, not really, but what I think he means to do is drive me away, get me frustrated, drive a wedge between us, because that would cut deep, deeper than a knife.  
Going off this, I realize I need to reaffirm my love for him, over and over until he realizes I will not leave his side, especially when he is hurting.  
So, I kiss the palm I hold to my chest before clasping it with both my own.  
“Perhaps I should have specified. Point to where you want to hurt,” I bid, making sure that my voice is tender, patient.  
With his free hand he points to the cheek he nearly struck.  
I kiss the cheek, projecting love though it.  
He points to his heart, and I kiss there.  
He points to his throat, and surprising a shudder at what harm could be dealt there, I kiss there tenderly, being doubly sure to not leave any mark.  
He points to his forehead, and I kiss there, passing on love and reassurance through my kiss.  
When I look at him, he looks confused.  
“But-aren’t you-“  
“No, no, I said I will not and I stand by it, but also I will not get angry at you, because my anger also hurts you, and I think you’ve been trying to provoke it, haven’t you?”  
He looks defeated.  
“I-yes, yes, I have, I’m sorry…” he sniffles, and he turns into my chest and bawls, and though my gentle tending of him as he weeps and the healing that tends to come with a bout of crying, his pain lowers.   
He falls asleep on my chest, tears exhausted and exhausting him, and I, setting my arms around him, follow.  
/  
I awake with my face in a pillow, and gentle fingers probing the back of my head. When they reach a tender spot, I groan softly and tense.  
“Shh, it’s alright, I’m just making sure you didn’t bleed or something when you hit your head.”  
Aiwendil is here, and he’s the one touching my head.  
“How do you feel?” He asks tenderly, letting his hands rest.  
“I’m not too badly off but I’m exhausted and my head does hurt,” I reply.  
“It’s nearly dinner, do you feel up to sitting with us?”  
“I’m so sorry, but I don’t think I am. I need a dark quiet space right now.”  
“It’s alright, don’t regret it. I understand. I’ll bring you some food, alright?”  
“Please.”   
He kisses the back of my head and leaves.  
I hear the hobbits asking after me.  
“He has a headache-it’s my fault-and needs to rest,” Aiwendil explains.  
“I do not blame him!” I call.  
The hobbits ask what happened.  
“I-well, by my words, and actions, I made him panic, badly, so when he stood up in his panic he collapsed, from lack of air I think.”  
“I do not blame him, and I have forgiven him! I ask you do not harass him for it, or you _will_ will answer to me!”  
Silence follows for a moment, and then they are back to work.  
Soon after Aiwendil is back with food, and I eat slowly before setting the dishes aside.  
After chores, Aiwendil comes back and I snuggle to his chest before falling asleep.  
/  
Something jostles me. Aiwendil is awake in the middle of the night, but he isn’t sick. I guess, by his urgency, that he needs to relieve himself. I roll over and go back to sleep.  
/  
I wake in his arms, secure, safe, but something feels off. Moving slightly, my back is rubbed by fabric, stiff as if something had dried on it, and on that spot lies his wrist. Fear taking me, I roll over to put the wrist in my line of sight.  
My stomach is replaced with a pit of fear, horror, compassion and shock.  
Three cuts span across his inner arm, by the wrist. The cuts were deep enough to bleed properly, and now an inch or so down his wrist is stained red with blood. Luckily the wounds have stopped bleeding, and I don’t think he’s lost any serious amount of blood.  
I know what they are and where they came from, and if I could do anything to change that I would defy the stars to do so but I cannot deny or change the fact I could stop my lover from hurting himself as I once tried to.  
My first instinct upon seeing the cuts is to heal them, stop scarring, make him forget he ever did this, so I press the injury to my lips and kiss it, trying at the same time to pass healing and forgetfulness, the hardest things to do.  
But before I can finish, he stirs and looks at me knows what I’m doing.  
I blush slightly, but keep eye contact.  
He however, looks horrified and terrified and guilty and tries to pull away. I press the wound now to my forehead, as if I’m blessing it, although I know I am not worthy of blessing him.  
“Oh no,” he whispers, “I did not mean for you to see this, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, don’t hate me it was a mistake-“  
I pepper the skin I can reach with kisses, and he quiets, still afraid.  
“Shh, it’s ok. We can fix this. I will help you, but first, why did you not tell me? You said you would tell me if you were hurting.”  
“I-I did not wish to wake or worry you, and it would have, Olórin, it would have!”  
“Yes, it would have, but this is to be worried over,” I say, forcing my voice to be even, calm, “this comes with awful hurt, Aiwendil, and if your guilt still eats at you please, please tell me how I can help with that.”  
“I-I do not know how to help myself, or how I can be helped, but I wish that I could tell you, because it is my guilt that pains me.”  
“I have an idea, but first one more question: Be honest, did my memory give you the idea to do this?”  
“No! Well, yes, well, sort of. The memory did not give me the idea to hurt myself but when I felt the only way to deal with the stinging, aching terrible guilt was physical pain…I admit that the memory gave me the…instructions needed.”  
My stomach lurches.  
“Oh no, I really shouldn’t have showed you that, should I? Oh no…”  
“No, I want you to share your pain! After all, if I share mine you share yours, and besides, it is not your fault I skewed your memory to my regrettable purposes. Please do not regret sharing, only regret…me.”  
“I regret what you did, and I regret that I have had even the slightest, accidental hand in your hurt but I do not regret being with you and being your lover.” My voice grows stern. “I will not leave you, not unless you hurt me as…Saruman did, and you have not done so. I love you, Aiwendil, and I will do so until you no longer wish my love or until the world utterly ends.”  
“I-Olórin, how do I-how can I respond to this?” He asks, shocked but not unhappily. “My only wish was that you would not leave me for my actions this past day, and you promise me your love until time ends!” He looks about ready to cry. “How can I repay this?”  
“You do not have to, for I give my love as a gift, but if you must, a good start, Aiwendil, is trying your best not to hurt yourself again, alright?”  
“I think I can do that,” he smiles shakily.  
“Oh, come here,” I hug him close to me, treasuring him. He glows, practically, under this protective affection, and I tighten my hold on him.  
Eventually though, we must get up. I want to see to his wound washed and bound before the hobbits get up.  
“Stay here, I’m fetching bandages,” I say quietly, before slipping away and grabbing bandages, water and a soft clean cloth to bathe the wound.  
I wet the cloth and tenderly clean it, but for my best attempts to not pain him, he still flinches.  
I gently bind the wound, and kiss it again to ceremoniously seal it.  
“While we have the items for it, I ought to bind your chest” suggests Aiwendil.  
My chest? Oh, oh, where I tried to stab myself, I nearly forgot!  
My robe is already unbuttoned, so I slip it off my shoulders and stand, feeling oddly vulnerable as he cleans the wound and bandages it. I am quick to slip the robe back on.  
Aiwendil kisses me gently where I stand, and we end up kissing, no heat or inclination of anything more intimate, yet is it the most open I’ve been with him physically, trading tender kisses with my arms wrapped around the back of his neck, and his just above my waist, so there is barely any room between us.  
He stops, and rests his forehead to mine, looking into my eyes, and we stand there, unaware of anything beyond each other.  
His Fëa is again surrounding mine, and mine blossoms to meet his, and they touch, and I shiver, leaning heavily into him.   
Aiwendil breaks the moment, and turns me gently and buttons up my robe, and I wonder, is this marriage? Are we more than lovers?  
When he finishes, he kisses the back of my neck, and I shiver again, as if its my first time with such sensations all over again.  
I turn, and button his robe up, and reciprocate his kiss, and he leans into me gently.  
With no words needed, we turn as one and go to the kitchen.  
/  
During breakfast, Pippin notices the bandage peeking out of Aiwendil’s sleeve.  
“What happened Radagast?” Pippin asks, taking the wrist in question in his hand.  
He looks at me, seeking council.  
I reply, thought sending: _Tell them the truth, or I will._  
Aiwendil nods, braces himself.  
“Well, remember I said last night, about Gandalf panicking and collapsing, and it being my fault? Well, I felt terribly guilty, despite Gandalf’s reassurances, and well…the guilt drove me to…make these wounds.”  
The hobbits are horrified, naturally.  
“I’m alright now, I think,” Aiwendil quickly reassures, “I regret what I did, and my wounds are treated.”  
The hobbits don’t seem to know what to say, but in their turn they reach out to Aiwendil and pat his hand or arm gently.  
/  
Pippin corners me after breakfast.  
“Do you know how he…did it?” He asks, and the context is clear by his voice and worried but determined face.  
“I think they were made by knife,” I explain.  
“Then we should hide the knives, put them where he won’t suspect, so if he tries it again…”  
“…he’ll hopefully be frustrated and give up. Clever boy!”  
Pippin smiles softly before scanning the room, and his eyes land on the cabinet which holds books. It’s harder to reach than the rest we have.  
“We can put them in the book cabinet,” Pippin says.  
“Let’s get to it then.”  
Efficiently we hide the knives, slipping them into the space between the books and the wall.  
“You’ll be the one to get them down,” states Pippin, and he eyes me.  
“Don’t try _it_ again, just because you alone can get knives.”  
“Don’t worry I won’t, especially now that we all need to keep an eye to Radagast.”  
/  
That night, I choose my sleeping position carefully. I end up setting my head over his heart and slinging a leg over his hips, so I’ll be moved a lot and woken if he stirs.  
/  
He’s woken up again. I feel him get off the bed, although I’ve been rolled away from the doorway, on my side. I feign sleep but listen intently. If I hear the cabinet open, I vow, I will get up and stop him whatever the cost.  
But the cabinet never opens. I hear soft crying coming from the kitchen, and within a few minutes of getting up he’s back, and he presses his face into the back of my shoulder he weeps bitterly, regret and shame and guilt pouring off of him.  
I fake a dream, pressing back into him, muttering some nonsense in elvish before projecting love and pride for him, because I know, somehow, he came back quickly and unhurt by an effort of his will, not because his attempt was frustrated.  
I know he won’t try it again, somehow.  
//  
//  
He does not, but then again, looking back at it, it’s because he was dead that time next night.


End file.
